


if the sun don't shine

by falsegoodnight



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bottom Louis, Dom/sub Undertones, Dreamsharing, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Neighbors, Strangers to Lovers, Top Harry, Violinist Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28839453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsegoodnight/pseuds/falsegoodnight
Summary: Louis finds himself struck frozen, fingers stuck in place where he’s flattened them against the cold railing. It takes every bit of his remaining strength to pull them away, sliding them under his shirt and pressing them to his stomach to leech some of the warmth. He hardly pays attention to the bite of the wind and air on his shivering body. He can only pay attention to the music.The music that is undoubtedly new to Louis’ ears, yet listening to it is the most familiar thing Louis has ever experienced. An inexplicable rush of emotions flood his mind and body, rendering him speechless and hollow. It’s a call of loneliness. It rings of everything Louis’ been feeling.And the pure yearning - the intense longing for something and someone - tears through straight to Louis’ heart. The desperation feels all too intimate, all too real. It makes Louis think of what he yearns for more than anything. It makes him think of his soulmate.-In a world where you meet your soulmates in dreams, Louis has spent the last three years going to bed hoping to finally meet his, only to end up disappointed time and time again. It all changes with a violin.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 136
Kudos: 584





	if the sun don't shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soldouthaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldouthaz/gifts).



> This fic is a birthday present for one of my favorite people in this crazy world: Sarah, my platonic _soulmate._ I’m saving most of the sappy stuff for the end notes and you’ll see why but I hope you enjoy this fic (even though there’s no bathing 😔) and makes you smile like you make me smile every day <3 
> 
> That being said, _yes,_ this is a New Year’s fic and _yes,_ it’s almost February. When I first outlined the story, I was hoping to get it out by December 31st but it just didn't happen. Writing this fic was a major struggle from beginning to end but I'm happy to finally have it out! Just another small disclaimer, there's multiple inaccuracies about dreams and insomnia in this story that were *mostly* deliberate to aid the story and the concept of soulmate dreams. Just suspend your disbelief, as always with reading fanfiction. 
> 
> (I also want it known that the Barbie mention in this fic existed _before_ their tweet -- maybe I'm psychic?)
> 
> As much as I’d love to take credit for this idea, the prompt for this fic came from my dear friend [Jem](http://cheershalo.tumblr.com) on her au concept blog which you can find [here](http://hlauconcepts.tumblr.com). You are truly the soulmate au queen and I adore you very much.
> 
> Thank you sweet Chelsea for beta-reading this for me and always reassuring me when I go through those bouts of what-the-fuck-am-i-doing. You are truly an angel sent from the heavens and I'm so grateful for you. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

Dreams are a fickle thing. 

That’s what Louis’ mother always used to say when he was a kid. He hadn’t known then, of course - hadn’t been old enough. But even so, he had plenty of dreams. 

Most of them faded away by the time morning enveloped him, wisps of ethereal fantastical lands and soft lunar landscapes lingering against his eyelids before he inevitably shook them off and charged into a new day. He’s had some darker dreams too, shadowy nightmares that had him shifting and shuddering in his sleep, heart pounding in his throat and fingers trembling against the sheets when he finally escaped. 

There’s been periods of recurring terrors tainted with embarrassment and dread and other ugly feelings that left a sour taste in his mouth long after he finally woke up. And many mortifying fantasies of skin on skin and bodies moving together, an ache in his most intimate parts and shame curling in his stomach when his eyes flickered open, toes curled and sweat pooling in the hollows of his neck. 

The point is that Louis is no stranger to dreams. 

It’s rare that a night goes by where he doesn’t drift off to sleep and appear in a different realm, whether it be from his imagination or the depths of his memories. He dreams most nights and has ever since he was young, building an archive of thousands upon thousands of manifestations. 

Thousands upon thousands of dreams have filled his eyelids and taken space in his mind. Thousands upon thousands of dreams, and yet none of them were the one he’s been longing for. 

None of them have been the _one._

| ☀ |

Luci likes to talk. 

She likes it a lot, actually. A constant stream of words spilling from her lips as she and Louis get to work restocking shelves at Little Corner Bookshop. They don’t often have shifts together but when they do, she always talks Louis’ ear off. He’s used to it by now, well versed in tuning out the cadence of her voice as she blabbers on about classes and Mick Jagger and why Janis from Mean Girls is the true villain of the story.

Over the past year he’s been working at this establishment, Louis has become an expert at ignoring Lucia Gonzales when she’s babbling like this, but all that crumbles with a single sentence. 

“You know Paula met her soulmate, right?” she whispers to him, lined eyes wide. 

The words crash like cymbals in his ears, turning him to stone. _You know Paula met her soulmate right?_ Hollow. Louis feels hollow, bones like marble and a lead lump in his stomach, tethering him to the ground like a force of gravity. He is a statue. He is a statue but Luci doesn’t notice.

She hums to herself, flipping through a Wilde book before she continues, “That’s why I’m here today and not her. She said she was sick but she’s really out with _Dallas.”_

Louis’ ears buzz and he swallows, the sour taste of metal on his tongue. He is a statue. “She found him already?” he asks, voice like gravel. There are rocks in his stomach, weighing him down. 

“Yeah, apparently he works down the block at Mandy’s,” Luci reveals. “Did you know this was her _fourth_ dream? How many people get to say they met their soulmate so young? That they were already living in the same city and orbiting each other’s paths. What a lucky bitch, honestly.”

Paula is younger than them. Not yet nineteen. Not yet nineteen and she’s found her soulmate already. Louis swallows rocks. Puts down the book he was holding, a barely noticeable quiver in his fingers. 

“He’s hot too. Paula sent me a picture of the two of them. They look smitten already, I’m disgusted,” Luci sniffs, tapping at her phone for a moment. He doesn’t realize that she’s going to show him the picture until it’s too late. 

She practically jerks it at him and he stiffens, body going rigid and eyes dropping to the picture. There’s Paula. Dark hair, hazel eyes, and the biggest smile he’s ever seen on her face. One of the _only_ smiles he’s seen on her face, a sharp contrast from the tired gloom he’s been familiar with. 

The same tired gloom he’s seen mirrored in his own face whenever he looks at his reflection. Like the world is weighing down on you and you’re just going through the motions. They used to be the _same,_ him and Paula. 

But now she’s grinning, and Dallas is handsome, and Louis is still utterly alone. 

“Nauseating,” Luci snarls, the word being an apt description considering Louis’ own churning stomach. “But, happy for her, I guess.”

He doesn’t even try to speak, lips chapped and heart shuddering, every bear feeling like a cry for help. _Not yet nineteen._

Going by the numbers, Paula probably didn’t have to wait very long for her first dream - maybe she even got it on her birthday itself. And now she and Dallas will live their dream together. 

He lets the gravel churn in his stomach as he turns and slowly walks away, moving to a different aisle and a different cart of books. Luci doesn’t even notice, chattering on about something else while Louis’ heartbeat roars in his ears. 

Eighteen. Paula is _eighteen._ And she’s gotten three dreams. It’s a bit more than the average of two per year, more than _nothing._

Louis is almost twenty-one, and he hasn’t even had one.

| ☀ |

“Soulmates,” his mother had said, taking Louis’ small hands in her own and smiling excitedly. “You know that word? Right, darling?”

Eight-year-old Louis had scrunched his face up, racking his brain in trying to remember. It sounded familiar to him, the word ‘soulmate.’ And glided across his brain, feeling _soft._

“Daddy says you’re his soulmate,” he says, after a moment. His mommy has a lot of smiles but the smile she had when he said that was the one he loved the most. It was _special._ “And Gaby,” he adds, staring up at her with wide eyes. “Gabe said his big sister found her soulmate last week. It’s like a boyfriend or girlfriend, right? Except you guys are married.” 

“Sort of,” his mother agreed. “But a bit more special than that.” She smiled at him softly. “What do you think about dreams, baby?” 

Louis pouted. “I like them,” he said after a moment’s thought. “They’re nice.” He pauses to frown. “Except when they’re scary.” 

His mother frowns at him. “You know you can always come wake me up if you have a nightmare, darling,” she reminds him gently. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about today. I want to talk about a different dream.” 

From there, his mother began to tell him a story. 

It was a story from Greek mythology, his mother explained. A story about how in a world a long long time ago most humans had four legs, four arms, and two faces. Fearing their power, the great mighty god of thunder, Zeus, split their bodies down the middle, dooming them to lives spent searching for their other parts. Apollo, feeling sorrow for the creatures, sewed them up so they were all individually whole. But even while they were complete without their other parts, none of the humans were content. 

However, Aphrodite, the goddess of love, could feel the pain the humans were suffering through, none of them able to feel the true extent of love unless their entire soul was reunited. She garnered the help of the three sons of the god Hypnos: Morpheus, Phobetor, and Phantus, to find a way to help humans find love again out of the watchful eye of Zeus. 

Dreams. Dreams were the solution. 

“Now, when every human turns eighteen, they have the chance to meet their missing soul - their soul _mate_ in a dream,” his mother says, voice dropping to a whisper as if Zeus were truly listening in on them at that very moment. 

Louis listens with wide eyes. “How do you know it’s them in your dream?” he whispers, awed. 

His mother just smiles at him - one of the smiles she gives him whenever he says something that particularly endears her. “You’ll know,” she assures him. “Sometimes it takes a few dreams to get a good enough look and be able to talk to them, but they’ll all come in due time. For most people, it takes more than a few years. There’ll be close calls: almost-dreams that you’ll wake up feeling like you’ve missed something important. Sometimes the dream is a maze and it’ll take all night for you to go through it. Some won’t even find them at all. But the good thing is that the dreams will keep coming until it does work - until you and your soulmate can find each other in real life just as well as you can find each other in dreams, and they disappear. The soulmates ones anyway.” 

He bites his lip, mind whirling with the information that’s been poured over him, almost too much for his young mind to handle. But he holds tight to the threads twisting around him, pulling and tugging at them until they start to make sense. “Did I really start out with four arms?” he blurts, wrinkling his nose as he glances down at his two limbs. 

The laugh his mother lets out is surprised and fond. “Like all stories, we don’t know if this one is true,” she says. “It may just be pure nonsense - a lie made up by those who wanted to put an explanation to the inexplicable. But soulmates _are_ real. The dreams are all the proof we need of that - the dreams and the love and happiness that follows. The closer you are to them, the more dreams you’ll get - the more your sleep cycles will match up. There is no scientific explanation for it, but sometimes we’re better off not knowing. They may not all be romantic, but everyone has a soulmate - some may even have more than one.” 

“I have one?” Louis asks quietly, brows furrowing as he pictures a faceless figure. Someone who shares his soul. He wonders if they’d want to watch _The Worst Witch_ with him. Louis didn’t know why but he sort of felt like the faceless figure was a boy. “A soulmate?” 

“Yes, you do,” his mother grins. She holds out her arms expectantly and Louis barrels into her with a giggle, inhaling the familiar and safe scent of her sweet perfume. “One day, you’ll get that dream that you’ll never want to wake up from, darling,” she says. “And you’re going to be so happy.” 

_One day,_ he thinks, still unable to fully comprehend a concept so grand and life-changing. Once he and his mother cuddled, Louis’ father came home and they played footie in the yard. Louis laughed and shrieked and tipped his head back to smile up at the sky, lips sore from stretching so wide and heart full. 

Soulmates may sound pretty cool, but for now, Louis is pretty content with the love he has already. 

| ☀ |

Louis blinks awake somewhere in early morning, glimpses of the hazy lightening sky peeking in through the curtains. A glance at the clock tells him it’s three o’clock. 

Slowly, he exhales, letting every ounce of restlessness and sleep-encrusted gravel seep out of his body until he is completely lax. 

He blinks against the dark, feeling a peculiar mixture of antsy and peaceful. His skin is bathed in sweat yet cold to the touch, and his fingers tremble until he curls them in the sheets. 

If Louis didn’t know any better, he’d assume he woke up from a nightmare. That the unsteady beats of his heart and the burning in his eyes are remnants of shadowy terrors and helpless tossing and turning. 

But he does know better.

There was no nightmare. There was no dream at all. He rarely gets them anymore - as if with every month that passes and his chances for a soulmate dwindle, his chance at dreaming the way he used to fade away too. The thought of one day having no dreams at all feels worse than any nightmare he can imagine.

Minutes pass at a sluggish gait, an itch appearing at the base of his throat that he scratched with weak fingers followed by a prickle in his thigh. His lips curl into a grimace, eyes squeezing shut as he begs the universe to let him fall asleep. To let him _dream._

It becomes apparent that the universe is simply not listening tonight.

With a sigh, Louis sits up in bed, sheets twisted around his slumped body. This is far from an unusual occurrence much to his displeasure. 

He slides out into the cool floor, shivering as his toes press into the ground and he stumbles forward, groping in the dark for the nightstand so he can grab his phone. His eyes squint against the harsh glare when he illuminates his home screen, and he uses the light to guide him as he fumbles for the jacket hanging on the back of his desk chair. 

It’s almost December and Louis can’t afford to get sick so close to finals. After a moment’s hesitation, he finds himself heading for the balcony. There’s only one in the entire flat - it’s small and cramped, but it’s there. Perrie, his roommate, had no qualms about letting Louis take the room that led out to it. She said that every time she stepped out there, she thought it was going to crumble underneath her. Yeah, it _is_ a bit rickety, but Louis doesn’t go and lean over the railing or anything. 

Today, he just slides the door open and sits down, legs splayed out in front of him and arse still inside the room. He shivers against the sudden onset of cold, a chill sneaking up through his flannel pajama pants and making his toes curl in his thick socks. 

He ignores it, choosing instead to focus on the sky. It’s a sleepy gray-blue, the barest hints of lightness bleeding through by the horizon. Slumping to the side and resting his head against the side of the sliding door, he exhales raggedly. His eyes are still heavy from sleep, limbs sluggish and senses dulled, but the idea of going back to sleep and waking up dreamless roots him to this spot. 

There’s muted echoes of car alarms and sirens and other unmistakable city sounds ringing through the air but it all feels eons away, like Louis is caught on another plane of the universe, drifting through the world like a ghost. 

In fact, he feels so disconnected and detached from it all, that he almost misses the first notes curl into the air. But the rich tone is harsh against the night and Louis freezes, lips parting in confusion. 

Is that… music? 

Louis gapes as the sound gets louder, overtaking the silent darkness with powerful notes that reverberate through his mind, sliding down his throat and finding a home in between his ribs - he can feel it in every part of his body. 

He is suddenly wide awake. 

_Violin,_ he thinks wonderingly. Someone is outside playing the violin at three in the morning. Before he even realizes it, he’s shifting onto his knees, awkwardly crawling further out into the balcony. His knees protest against the hard metal panelling beneath them, the thick layer of flannel from his pajamas turning out to be pitiful padding. 

Peering down across the street proves fruitless. It’s much too dark and Louis’ eyes much too tired to see anything clearly. However, as the music grows louder, Louis realizes that it’s not coming from below at all. 

His head tips back to stare at the bottom of the balcony above him, knowing the same layout continues from room to room all the way up the building. There’s no way to know for sure which one the violinist is playing on - not from his limited view, but the notes ring so clearly and distinctly in Louis’ ears that it can’t be very far. God, it could be the one directly above him and he’d be none the wiser. 

An urge to speak aloud and find out for sure pushes at his lips, but he presses them silent. This musician is obviously not looking to be listened to if they’re playing so early in the day. 

So instead, Louis listens. He closes his eyes and lets the music soak into his mind and replace the ugly exhaustion, frustration, and hurting that’s festered inside him. He lets the music _soothe_ him. 

He’s not sure how much time passes as he sits there, breathing in and out. The music never falters for more than a second, the performer switching from song to song without any hesitance. Some feel familiar, but most of it is entirely new. Louis wonders if they’re original compositions - if he’s got a genius composer living above him somehow. 

Right as most of the weight has eased off his lungs, the music switches. Louis’ eyes open as the first haunting tone cuts through him like a knife, shocking and brutal. His mouth falls open as the music continues to morph, growing darker and more somber with every note. 

It’s still every bit as achingly beautiful as the rest of it, but it’s also much more honest - more _raw._ As if one playing is pulling every tender chord straight from his heart, baring his most vulnerable parts to the world. 

Louis finds himself struck frozen, fingers stuck in place where he’s flattened them against the cold railing. It takes every bit of his remaining strength to pull them away, sliding them under his shirt and pressing them to his stomach to leech some of the warmth. He hardly pays attention to the bite of the wind and air on his shivering body. He can only pay attention to the music. 

The music that is undoubtedly new to Louis’ ears, yet listening to it is the most familiar thing Louis has ever experienced. An inexplicable rush of emotions flood his mind and body, rendering him speechless and hollow. It’s a call of loneliness. It rings of everything Louis’ been feeling.

And the pure yearning - the intense longing for something and _someone -_ tears through straight to Louis’ heart. The desperation feels all too intimate, all too real. It makes Louis think of what he yearns for more than anything. It makes him think of his soulmate.

He stays out on the balcony for a long time.

| ☀ |

Dallas stops by the bookshop to say hello to Paula during one of Louis and her shared shifts.

Louis tries his hardest to tamp down the ugly curl of envy that wraps around his heart and squeezes like a vice, but it’s hopeless. He’s wearing a red sweater, blue jeans, and a purple scarf, but his insides are painted deep green.

Paula looks radiant, a permanent smile etched across her face that mirrors the matching one of her soulmate’s. There’s threads of pure gold curling around her brown skin, lighting up her eyes. No green in sight, she’s golden. 

He steers clear from the happy couple, gravel in his throat as Paula introduces him to Luci, gushing and giggling and grinning. Louis has never loathed her like he does today. 

Luci, of course, begs to know everything. 

“The first dream was at a beach,” Paula says, grabbing Dallas’ hand and squeezing. 

“We both love the beach,” Dallas adds, smiling dopily. 

Louis decides in that moment that he hates the beach. 

“I was looking for seashells and thought it was just another dream,” Paula continues, eyes fond and soft. “And then I looked up and saw him…”

“Suddenly, it wasn’t a dream anymore,” Dallas whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple. He’s handsome, Louis notes, but it’s not really his looks that make him so appealing. It’s the way his entire face is open and lit up, skin glowing as if his happiness is dripping through his blood, seeping from his fingertips. Gold, gold, gold. “It felt like we were being reunited. We both just _knew_.” 

“That’s adorable,” Luci coos and they both beam. Bright and happy. Golden, golden, golden.

Lips twisting, Louis grabs the cart filled with books to restock - a job he normally avoids by all costs - and rushes to the back of the shop. 

He shouldn’t feel this jealous. Paula is a lovely girl and she deserves to be happy and in love. 

_So do I,_ he thinks woefully, sliding a book onto the shelf. He stares at the spine, heart stuttering in his chest. Everyone has a soulmate, he tells himself. Reminds himself. 

_One day you’ll get yours too._

There’s some part of him that can’t help but think the worst - a part of him wondering if he’s the exception. If everyone on the planet has a soulmate except him. It’s ridiculous, he knows. The chance is almost infinitesimal, but he can’t help but consider it. Can’t help but feel hopeless. 

It’s only been a few years, he thinks hysterically. 99% of people at least get something within two - even if it’s just the traces of a dream out of grasp. They still get _something._ But Louis hasn’t gotten anything. Sometimes he tries to convince himself that it happened, that he felt the thrum that’s been described so many times in countless recollections. Tries to convince himself that he felt it, even just for a little bit. 

But in the end, he knows better. He knows he’s never felt anything like that in a dream, when he even gets a dream at all. He’s sick and tired of waiting and longing, but it’s all he knows how to do. He’s been waiting for his soulmate ever since he first found out about them. 

Sometimes it feels like he’s waiting for something that’ll never come. It’s his biggest fear. The hollow part of him that feels like he'll keep digging and digging for gold, never finding anything but rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. 

| ☀ |

Louis has always been a crier. 

It’s something he knows about himself, and it’s something that he’s not ashamed of. It’s healthy to let it all out and allow yourself to be vulnerable. Besides, he’s a capricorn, for fuck’s sake. Of course, he cries often. It’s the best way to process emotions. However, nothing is worse than _not_ wanting to cry at a particular moment but feeling that familiar contracting in your chest and lump in your throat, tightening and making it hard to breathe. 

He can feel it right now, squeezing his eyes against the onset of wetness as his fingers curl into the sheets helplessly. His throat burns with the effort of holding back a sob, the silence pushing in on him in the dark. 

Three in the morning. It’s three in the morning, according to the red glare of his alarm clock on the bedside table, blurring in his vision as the first wave of tears break through. He tries to fight against it, but he’s all too aware that when the tears come, there’s nothing he can do to stop them. So he chokes out the first sob, a shudder wracking his entire body as wetness spills to his cheeks. 

Every sound sounds like it’s been pulled from deep in his lungs, raw and strangled and pained. These aren’t soft, melancholy tears or tears of frustration - these are the worst kinds of tears. 

The hopeless tears. The yearning tears. The kind that only come when he’s in the darkness, _alone_ bleeding into _lonely._

They’re not quiet either - loud and ugly sobs tearing through his lips, wicked demons spilling from his throat. Neverending. 

Before he realizes it, he’s stumbling to his feet. The floodboard is cold against his toes but he doesn’t notice, trembling as he staggers to the balcony. Air. He needs fresh air. 

His fingers quiver when he wraps them around the wood, yanking on the door until it slides open with a small creak, a rush of cold air seeping into the room and settling in his bones. Louis whimpers, another wave of sobs rising in his chest, begging to be released. He lasts about a minute before the first cry breaks through, a dam bursting inside him as he grips the metal railing, shaking. 

There’s no distinct reason for him to be this upset. After Paula and Dallas’ love fest at the bookshop, Louis had drowned out his bitter feelings with ice cream and ABBA, trying to fill the gaping cavity in the center of his chest. He thought he had succeeded too, going to bed relatively fine and already making mental notes about what assignments he needed to complete tomorrow - _today._

But then he woke up at three in the morning, dreamless. He had woken up, stared at the ceiling, that familiar pressure of disappointment and longing pulsing inside him. It was nothing new, but maybe he’s just particularly fragile today. Whatever it was, the crater reopened and the pain returned and here he is, crying on the balcony while the city sleeps around him. 

The self-pity and anguish filling his body is infuriating but Louis is too upset to feel annoyed about it. He’s so upset and distracted by his own misery that he doesn’t notice the music. 

He doesn’t notice the music, which means he doesn’t notice when it stops either. And he definitely doesn’t notice the voice calling out from above, laced in concern. 

However, he does notice when a pair of legs appear out of nowhere, almost kicking him in the face. Choking on his saliva, Louis stumbles back just in time as someone jumps down onto the balcony with a resounding thud, cloaked in darkness. 

Louis screams. 

“Oh shit, sorry!” a voice says. It’s deep and blanketed in alarm, but undeniably warm. Like honey dripping into Louis’ ears. “I’m not a thief or a murderer, I promise! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Heart hammering in his chest, Louis gapes. He’s stunned to the spot, staring at this stranger in shock. “You just dropped onto my balcony,” he says stupidly. 

“Yeah, sorry,” the stranger says, like he’s apologizing for bumping into him and not for climbing down to someone else’s balcony at three in the morning and scaring the shit out of them. “You weren’t responding when I was trying to yell so I figured you were distracted.” 

A ridiculous part of Louis is sure that this is a dream - that the universe is having a laugh by sending him his first dream in months and having it be such a bizarre one as this. But it’s not. He can feel the cool metal beneath his toes and the goosebumps prickling his skin. 

He stares at the stranger again, finally pausing to take a look at him. He’s young, is the first thing Louis notes. He knows age is hardly an indicator of danger but his odds with another college student compared to a middle-aged man are much more preferable. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a shirt with an indiscernible design on it, and he’s tall - that’s about all Louis can tell in the musky black. 

“Who are you?” he blurts. 

The stranger startles, which Louis finds to be rather ironic considering the situation, but then he recovers. “I’m Harry,” he says, as if that answers everything. “I live above you.”

“And you thought it was a smart idea to climb down into someone else’s balcony, _Harry,”_ Louis says, teeth grit as he shivers. He pulls his sleep shirt’s sleeves down over his fingers, clenching the fabric in his hands. It’s cold outside. 

It’s the seventh of December and Louis is standing out on his balcony with a stranger. _What the actual fuck?_

“I was just making sure you were alright,” Harry says, raising his hands in defense. “You weren’t answering me verbally and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” 

“Yeah, well, everything’s fine,” Louis says clippedly, wrapping his arms around his middle. He squeezes his eyes shut. _What the actual fuck?_ “You can…” He reluctantly detaches an arm to wave it nonsensically in the air. “Go away now.” 

“Alright,” Harry says, before pausing. “What’s your name?” 

Louis stares blankly at him. 

Harry seems to find this funny, chuckling. “Just out of curiosity! We are neighbors, after all. Well… sort of. I just moved in a few weeks ago, and to be honest, this isn’t how I saw myself meeting my first neighbor.” 

_What the actual fuck?_ Louis repeats to himself for the third time. Still, he clears his throat and offers, “Louis.” 

“Louis,” Harry repeats, softening. He holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Louis echoes, brows furrowing when he shakes Harry’s hand, warm skin against his colder fingers. “If you ever drop onto my balcony again, I’ll sue you.” 

“Noted,” Harry hums. “So, are you okay? With the crying and all?” 

At the reminder, Louis’ tentative calm falls away and he slumps. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “Just a bad day.” _Bad year._ “Thanks for your… concern.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Harry says. “Sorry again for all this, but I’ll get out of your hair.” He casts a quick glance over Louis’ shivering frame. “You may want to go back inside where it’s warmer. It’s cold out here.” 

Louis snorts. “I hadn’t noticed,” he drawls before he can think it through, but Harry doesn’t seem bothered.

In fact, he seems to smile, a flash of brightness cutting through the dark night. He turns to the railing and then looks up, before slowly turning back to Louis. “Uh… would it be pushing it if I asked to be let out through your door?” 

The beginnings of amusement flickering inside him, Louis shakes his head. “If you tried to climb back up in the dark like this I’m pretty sure you’d fall and break all your bones, and luckily for you, I’m not a murderer either - yeah, you can go out through the door.” 

Harry sighs in relief. “Thank you.” 

Questioning the events that led up to this moment, Louis goes inside first and fumbles for the light. He thinks he ought to pin a face to the man he’s letting into his flat - and his _room,_ for that matter - just in case he really does end up being a thief or something. 

He finds the switch and presses down right as Harry steps into the room, sliding the door shut behind him. The light flickers on and Louis gets his first proper look at his less romantic version of Troy Bolton. 

And… _wow._ Harry’s eyes are green. That’s the first thing he sees - much prettier than the green he was feeling back at the bookshop. His eyes are green, and he’s also really attractive. Maybe almost obnoxiously so. 

Even in an old shirt and worn sweatpants, he looks like some sort of model. Tall, broad, and lean. There’s a beanie pulled down over his hair but a few dark curls hang out over his forehead. The lines of his face are sharp and angled, lips plush and jaw defined. Suddenly, Louis feels very aware of his own ratty pajamas and how his hair must be a mess and his skin a sickly pallor from the lack of sleep he’s been getting. 

Except, now that he thinks about it, it’s not just Harry’s attractiveness that sticks out to him - there’s _exhaustion_ painted over his face and beneath his eyes, weighing down over his body. It’s distinct - _familiar._

“Louis?” Harry says cautiously. 

Louis jerks, snapping out of his thoughts. His cheeks color when he realizes Harry must’ve said something but he was too busy staring to catch it. “Sorry, what?” he blurts, before adding hastily, “Still half asleep.”

“No worries,” Harry smiles. And, fuck - his smile is nice too. “Just saying that I like your room.” He nods his head to the stringed lights he has hanging across the walls, an effort to bring some light in to replace the bitterness and hopelessness that’s festered in the deepest corners of his room, remnants of nights spent tossing and turning and gazing blankly at the ceiling. 

“Thank you,” Louis says awkwardly, squeezing the fabric of his sleeves in his hands tighter. This is very awkward, he thinks. There’s a boy he met less than ten minutes ago standing in his room, looking at him while he’s in his pajamas. Very weird, indeed. 

He wonders what Harry was doing out on his balcony at three in the morning anyway, thinking of the tiredness he feels mirrored in Harry’s own face. What demons plague Harry’s mind? And are they the same as the monsters chasing Louis? 

It hits him a second later. “Do you by any chance play the violin?” he blurts, cheeks coloring. 

Harry looks startled but then he smiles. “Yeah, I do!” 

Louis exhales, unable to help but grin himself. “I heard you the other day. Playing early in the morning.” He bites his lip, “You’re really good.” 

“Thank you,” Harry says softly, a hand reaching up to his neck absentmindedly. “There’s just something about practicing outside when the city is sleeping around you that feels comforting, I guess.” 

“So it’s for the aesthetic?” Louis teases, cringing at himself a moment after. _You don’t know him -_

But Harry just laughs - genuine and sweet. “Something like that. I’m always awake during that time anyway, so I figure might as well make some use of it.” 

_Always awake during that time._ Once again, he wonders how similar he and Harry truly are. 

“Well, you’re really talented,” Louis can’t help but emphasize. “Is everything you play original?” 

“Out there? Yeah,” Harry nods, shrugging. “No one up to judge my skills.” 

Louis thinks of the haunting melody he had heard, throat clogging up. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” he says honestly. He grimaces, fumbling for something else to say. He doesn’t know why he feels an urge for them to continue this conversation - when the sun isn’t up yet and his fatigue is beginning to return. But something propels him into talking. “How long have you been playing?”

“Since I was eight,” Harry reveals. “My next-door neighbor played and gave me lessons for free until we moved and my mom enrolled me in classes. I was hooked from the beginning.” 

“Do you play in a club or something?” Louis asks, curious. 

“Yeah, I’m in my school orchestra and I sometimes play with my church group,” Harry explains.

Later, Louis will curse his rambling tendencies with a vengeance. “I read something once about how people who play violin grow finger muscles differently than those who don’t,” he blurts, that part of his brain that tells him something is a bad idea ringing loudly. “Like - your fingers are stronger and longer…”

“I’m not sure if that’s true or not,” Harry says, looking amused. “However, I actually _have_ been complimented on my fingers a few times, but that’s usually under very different circumstances. I don’t think that’s quite what you meant.” 

Mortified, Louis shakes his head. “Never mind.” 

Harry just looks even more amused. Louis averts his eyes, flushing in embarrassment. 

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” Harry says after a moment. “If you’d please direct me to your door?” 

He nearly sighs out in relief. “Yeah, this way,” he rushes, cheeks burning. 

“I should have expected the layout of your flat to be the exact same as mine, but somehow this still feels surreal,” Harry remarks as they exit into the hallway. “Ours is a lot more plain though.” 

“Well, you just moved in, right?” Louis says, about to continue when a voice interrupts him. 

“Lou?” 

He freezes. 

“Murderer?” Harry whispers, stopping as well. 

“No, my flatmate,” Louis hisses, glancing at Perrie’s open door. She must still be in bed but their walls are paper thin and she’s always had a canny ear - it didn’t help that Harry and him haven't exactly been discreet. He clears his throat. “Sorry, Per, everything’s fine!”

“Is there someone out there with you?” she calls out. “I heard someone else.”

Harry opens his mouth, presumably to announce his presence, but Louis smacks him in the chest, shooting him a warning look. 

“No, just me!” he says hastily, gesturing for Harry to be quiet. 

“Okay, let me know if you need anything,” she says finally, voice rusty with sleep. “Don’t stay up too late, babe. G’night.” 

“Goodnight, love.” 

He waits a little bit longer to make sure the coast is clear before exhaling, lowering his voice to a murmur as he says, “No more talking. I’m not in the mood for explaining… _this_ right now.” 

Harry nods, giving him a thumbs-up, and they proceed in silence, much more wary of even their steps. It’s dark but Louis knows the layout of his flat very well, needing little guidance. Harry must already be familiar with it as well because he follows along quickly until they reach the door. 

Louis opens the door, gesturing out into the darkened hallway. “Do you need a flashlight or something?” he asks. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” Harry says. “But thank you.” 

“Well, be careful anyway,” Louis says, first instinct always to fuss. 

“I will. Bye, Louis,” Harry whispers exaggeratedly, grinning. Louis’ eyes latch onto the dimple that appears on his cheek, heart fluttering. 

“Bye, Harry,” he says belatedly, annoyed with himself. “Have fun with your violin.” 

“Will be making sure my fingers are as long and strong as possible,” Harry promises and Louis groans. Harry chuckles, before beginning to walk backwards away from the door. “Bye, neighbor!” he calls out one last time as Louis shuts the door. 

Louis means to go back to bed, he does, but he ends up staring at the wood in wonder for a little while instead. When he finally returns to his room, he does so feeling the slightest bit lighter than before, all tears forgotten. 

| ☀ |

Perrie is humming something under her breath when Louis shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing at his bleary eyes and pouting. Even though he did fall asleep again earlier this morning, there’s brittle exhaustion creaking in his limbs, prickling behind his lids. 

He stops short when he realizes the song she’s humming is _Breaking Free,_ mouth dropping open a little bit. What are the chances, really? 

“Mornin,’ Lou,” she greets when he clears his throat, sending him a wide smile. “Everything alright?” 

Shaking off the disbelief, Louis offers a small smile. “Yeah, just tired,” he says, heading to the cabinet to pull out a box of cereal. Perrie’s eating an omelette at the table but Louis isn’t in the mood, itching for something simple and bland to match the sludge of his mind. 

As he’s pouring milk over his cereal, his mind wanders back to the events of the night. To Harry the violinist that lives above him. His eyes. His haunting music. Something tugs inside him but he shakes it off. 

“Tired, hm?” Perrie says, and there’s a sly edge to her tone that has Louis pausing, glancing at her in confusion. “Because of that guy you brought over? He wore you out?” 

Louis sputters, tips of his ears burning. _“No -_ what’re you talking about? What guy? There’s no guy.” His voice may or may not raise in pitch, lungs contracting. 

“Oh, save it, Lou,” Perrie scoffs. “I may have been half-asleep but you bet your arse I can tell the difference between your voice and an unfamiliar _deep_ one.”

“Okay, but it’s not what you think,” Louis defends. At his roommate’s raised eyebrow, he sighs and grabs his bowl of cereal to bring to the table. “Did you know it’s possible to climb down to someone else’s balcony?” 

Perrie stares at him in confusion, lips parted. 

“Honestly, it’s a bit alarming,” Louis continues. “Someone could come down, break into our flat, and murder us in our sleep. Or, murder _me,_ I guess. It’s my room first. You’ll hear my screams and can hypothetically run for it.”

“Louis,” Perrie says slowly. “What the fuck?” 

So he explains properly this time. He explains about waking up in the middle of the night, citing a nightmare so Perrie doesn’t get concerned. He describes crying because he was distressed and Harry being concerned, figuring that dropping out onto someone else’s balcony was obviously the only reasonable thing to do. 

“And he didn’t know if he could climb back up so I let him out through the door,” Louis finishes, sticking a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and shrugging. “He plays the violin which is sort of cool too.” 

He looks up to see Perrie raising an eyebrow at him. “You - Louis Tomlinson - let a stranger into our flat? And _got to know_ him?” 

Louis huffs. “It’s not like he was dangerous. He’s our age and he’s pretty nice,” he mumbles, taking another bite. He thinks about Harry’s eyes and dimples and his music. 

Perrie narrows his eyes. “He’s hot, isn’t he?” 

Needless to say, Louis finishes his breakfast as fast as he can. 

| ☀ |

Despite his curiosity, Louis manages to avoid going out onto the balcony during the night for close to a week. He actually doesn’t go out there during the day either, like the remnants of his witnessed distress and exposed vulnerability will cling to him the moment he sets a socked foot onto the metal. 

Five days pass by in a flood of final classes and the start of revision, finals week looming closer and closer until it’s less than a daybreak’s away. Louis is all nervous energy, formulas and concepts and other tendrils of information sparking in his veins and flickering behind his lids. He always lets the stress get to him, no matter how long he spends preparing in advance. It never feels like enough, but he trudges through. 

Perrie and him establish a perfected routine of moving around each other and trading half-frazzled and half-affectionate glances when they pass each other in the flat before heading off to the million things they each have to do, two robots stuck in an endless rotation of eating, studying, and sleeping (or not, in Louis’ case). 

The bell dings as he opens the door to the bookshop, every step feeling ten times as heavy as he attempts a smile for Valeria, the owner, before heading to the front desk to take over for Amira, who’s frowning at her phone screen. 

She, like the majority of the younger shop employees, goes to Louis’ uni which means she’s also got the stressed dip between her perfectly shaped eyebrows and a strained grimace on her lips. Though she does seem to be handling it better than Louis, dressed as amazing as always in a maroon pinafore over a cream turtleneck that matches her maroon headscarf. A stark contrast from Louis’ sweatpants and a random wrinkled shirt that he grabbed last-minute. Normally he likes to dress up a bit even for work, but the lack of motivation this week is prevailing. 

It doesn’t matter anyway though since he’ll be working the register. He hugs Amira quickly and sits down with a sigh, dreading the next two hours strongly. The thing about working register is that he’s obligated to interact with customers instead of hiding in the back to restock or moving like a ghost to shelve. Louis has to deal with confused gift-givers, bored students purchasing required reading, and the worst: parents trying to get their preteen kids to read more. 

For some reason, every one of those types always assumes that the innocent bookstore employee knows anything and everything about every book ever. Though he’d gladly deal with a million questions about obscure books he’s never read if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the delusional ones _._ About an hour into the shift, Louis has to bite his tongue when dealing with a mother trying to find something for her son that’s, “Popular among teens, funny, educational, but absolutely _no_ bad words, kissing, or other _inappropriate_ content.” 

Resisting the urge to tell her that no such book exists, Louis directs her to the small collection of Christian literature they have specifically for this sort of clientele, enduring her endless chatter about her son spending too much time on his electronics and how she’s afraid he’s going to end up doing drugs if he doesn’t start reading books. It’s not quite how things work but Louis doesn’t say anything. 

When the familiar ding of the door sounds for what must be the thirtieth time, he nearly groans. Eyes squeezing shut and head propped up on his elbow, he wills this new customer to be someone who’s been here before and knows what they’re looking for, therefore not needing any of his assistance. 

The surprised, “Louis?” takes him off guard. 

He opens his eyes to see Harry standing before him. Three things strike him immediately: One, Harry is more attractive than he remembered. Two, just ten minutes ago Louis dragged his hands through his hair in frustration so it’s probably all messed up. Three, _fuck, Harry is more attractive than he remembered._

“Hi,” he says belatedly, eyes wide. 

Harry’s lips quirk in a half-smile and he gestures vaguely around. “Didn’t know you worked here.” 

Louis blinks at him. “Well, you don’t know me at all,” he says, before internally wincing. 

“That’s true,” Harry nods, before smirking. _“Yet.”_

Despite his best efforts, Louis can feel his cheeks go warm. He fumbles for a response, looking around panickedly. “Uh, are you looking for something in particular or browsing?” he blurts.

“Just browsing,” Harry says with an easy smile. “Got any suggestions?”

Before he can suggest that Harry leave and let Louis’ shoulders untense, he clears his throat. “What genre?” 

When Harry says he likes horror which is one of the genres Louis _doesn’t_ read, Louis leads him to the correct section and points out a few employee favorites. Then he lets Harry look for himself and rushes away with a hasty, “Call out if you need anything else!” 

He slumps back in his seat, heart racing and cheeks hot. Harry is a stranger, he tells himself. They barely know each other, so why does Louis feel so thrown off by him? It feels like he’s in a tug-of-war between wanting to learn more and wanting to get as far away as possible. He feels… disjointed after their short interaction, a bit unsteady. 

Even now, where he’s safely behind the desk and far away from Harry Styles, he is undeniably aware of his presence. He has to stop himself from flicking his eyes to the glimpse of broad shoulders and a head of dark curls in his peripheral. 

Luci jumping out from a nearby aisle nearly scares the shit out of him. 

“What the fuck, Luci?” he hisses, raising a hand and flattening it against his chest as he tries to calm his pounding heart.

“How come you never told me you were seeing someone?” she asks, looking affronted as she places her elbows on the counter and leans onto it. “Especially a _hot_ someone?” 

Louis stares at her in confusion. “What?” 

“That guy,” Luci says, tilting her head to the side. Louis glances over at Harry again, realizing. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he sputters. “He’s _my neighbor!”_

“Really? Is he single?” Luci asks, brows raising. “And into girls?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis says, peering over her shoulder to smile when the bell dings and another customer walks through the door. “And I’m _working,_ Luci, so could you please move? Aren’t you supposed to be restocking anyway?” 

“For a second I thought you and Paula _both_ found your soulmates in a week,” she says. She follows it with a laugh, not realizing that Louis has stiffened.

Because she’s just reminded him of his plight. Louis is dreamless. For all he knows, Harry has already met his soulmate and is happily in love. “Yeah, well, he’s just my neighbor,” he forces himself to get out. “I haven’t met my soulmate yet.” This is the first time he’s said it to Luci - in fact, this is the first time Luci is expressing interest in his love life in the first place. He shakes it off. “Now can you let me work?” 

Luci eyes him carefully. “You like him,” she accuses.

“Huh?”

“Hot neighbor guy,” Luci says, like it’s obvious. 

“I - what’re you talking about?” Louis sputters. He realizes he said it much louder than intended, cheeks coloring as he glances at Harry who is thankfully still standing with his back to them, reading the back of a book. He turns back to Luci, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I do _not._ How would you even get that idea?” 

She just gives him a look.

“I don’t even know him,” he protests, ducking his head. “We’ve only talked one other time. He’s cute, fine, but he isn’t my soulmate so what’s the point?”

“So what if he’s not your soulmate?” she says, arching a brow. “Doesn’t mean you can’t hook up or hang out.”

Louis bites his lip, shaking his head. She doesn’t understand. “Go restock the shelves before Valeria yells at you.”

Luci scoffs. “Aunt Val _loves_ me.” 

He snorts. She’s technically right, being her niece and all, but even blood relation doesn’t mean Valeria won’t straighten her out if she deserves it. Louis has heard plenty of, _‘Lucia Maria Gonzales’s_ to prove it. “We’ll see about that, chica.”

With one last roll of her eyes, Luci finally leaves him alone. Louis watches her go with furrowed brows. He’s pretty sure this is the only conversation he’s had with Luci that hasn’t left him feeling irritated. 

Two customers later, Harry finally makes his way back to the counter. He’s got three books clutched in a single way and Louis would be lying if he said he didn’t let his eyes linger. It’s been over an hour and Louis’ shift is technically over but Anya who has the next shift texted him that she was running late so he’s been sitting idly for a bit to wait for her. 

“So what do you think about the shop?” Louis blurts before he can think it through. 

“It’s nice,” Harry smiles, tapping his ringed fingers against the counter absently. “Very homey. A great selection.” He pauses to _wink._ “Great customer service.”

Louis is pretty sure his cheeks are permanently red. He fumbles when giving Harry his change and stutters when offering him a bag. Harry declines, stuffing them into a reusable tote which he pulls out from his jacket pocket. 

“Bye, Louis,” he says, before he goes. Then smiles, dimple peeking out. 

“Bye, Harry,” Louis says. The internal mantra of _he has a soulmate that’s not you_ falls on dead ears. He watches Harry turn and stride out the door, pausing to hold it open for a frazzled Anya who thanks him hurriedly. 

If Anya has to tap on his shoulder repeatedly to snap him out of it, Louis will deny it for eternity. 

| ☀ |

It really shouldn’t be a surprise when Louis wakes up early in the morning, dreamless. 

Still, the familiar burn of disappointment and hopelessness spreads through his veins and he sighs, blinking away the crust in his eyes. It’s even colder tonight than it has been the past week, so cold that he keeps his velvety midnight blue blanket wrapped tightly around him as he slides out of the bed, hissing at the cold wood of the floor. No matter how cold it gets, Louis refuses to sleep with socks on. It’s some sort of cosmic violation, he's pretty sure. 

He initially planned on creeping out to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk, memories from his childhood resurfacing where his mother swore it was the best way to fall asleep again. Usually the effort for his sleep-addled limbs and also the knowledge that he’d have to brush his teeth again (because he can’t _not)_ are enough to dissuade him but he feels particularly desperate tonight.

Except his feet don’t move in that direction, nor any direction close to it. Instead, he finds himself heading for the balcony, the red flash of 3:27 seared behind his eyelids. His fingers twitch at the frigid door handle but he tugs anyway, shivering against the sudden rush of wind. Though he’s half-asleep still, he’s not stupid. He doesn’t go outside, just drops to the floor and leans up next to the glass, eyes shut and mind whirring, not quite fully awake. 

The first crisp notes of the violin feel like relief. 

He doesn’t make a sound to alert Harry of his presence, just curls tighter into the blanket and lets himself listen. Time passes in an incomprehensible sludge, nothing but music to mark its passing. Louis lets every melody sink into him, filling his ears and his lungs and his aching heart. He lets everything else fall away - finals, loneliness, and his longing. He lets it all fall away and just _feels._

Slowly, he begins to see the sky grow lighter, streaks of pale morning blue bleeding in among the darker haze of midnight. Somewhere behind a mass of London buildings, the sun begins its ascent into the heavens, chasing away gloom from the night in the world’s most sacred cycle. 

It’s only then that the playing halts, last notes fading out in the clear air. Louis exhales, a small puff of air falling from his lips. His toes and fingers feel frozen, but there is a warmth settled deep in his chest. He stands up slowly, tucking the blanket around him before curling a hand around the handle to the door. He hesitates, taking a second to watch the sky change. 

Around him, a new day is born. 

| ☀ |

A day full of frantic studying, a plethora of sneezing and sniffling, and two spontaneous naps in an attempt to catch up on lack of sleep, Louis finds himself on the balcony again. Except this time he’s dressed much more warmly. Waffle knit shirt with a sweater over it, sweatpants, woolen socks, and mittens for his perpetually cold fingers. 

He’s also standing outside this time, braving the weather with a determined face. Because this time, he’s not just planning on listening. 

Harry’s playing something a bit softer than usual, a sweet melody that flows like a gentle stream instead of a roaring tsunami. Louis almost wishes he could watch, see the way Harry works each string and handles his bow.

But he’ll settle for talking for now. 

The first yell comes out quieter than he intended, unsure and unsteady rather than bold. The music doesn’t falter, weaving threads of dyads and scales into the air like a tapestry of sound. Harry goes on.

Clearing his throat, he speaks louder. “Harry.”

His next note scratches, grazing the sensitive part of Louis’ ears and making him flinch. The music stops. He waits with bated breath. 

“Louis? Is that you?”

“No, it’s Laura from down the hall. How are you?”

Harry might chuckle but Louis misses it in favor of the thundering in his heart. “What’re you doing up?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Louis deflects. _I don’t dream anymore._

“I’m practicing,” Harry says, voice deep but crisp in the night air. 

“And I’m listening to you practice,” Louis counters, biting his lip. “I actually woke up unexpectedly. Figured I’d pop out and see if you were playing.” _Again._

“Bad dream again?” Harry asks, and Louis might be crazy but he sounds concerned. 

“Something like that,” he murmurs in response. He hesitates. “Do you mind that I’m out here? Some musicians really like their peace and quiet so please tell me if you’d rather I go inside and not bother you. I’d never want to -“

“Louis,” Harry interrupts, and Louis shivers because his name sounds just as beautiful coming from Harry’s mouth as the music coming from his violin. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Think I need a break actually. Ran my fingers raw earlier today and they’re still sore. Might need to ice them.” 

“Sorry to hear that,” Louis says, feeling that familiar awkwardness return. Harry makes him feel like he’s a teenager again and he doesn’t quite know if he likes that yet. 

“Don’t be. It’s normal,” Harry says. “Tell me something about you, Louis.”

He blinks. “Like what?”

“Anything,” Harry says. “What’s your thing?”

“My thing?” Louis echoes, confused. 

“Your thing,” Harry repeats. “What brings you joy? What gives you meaning? What’s your violin?”

“Oh,” Louis breathes. He turns to lean up against the railing, pursing his lips. He’s mostly just stalling. There’s only one answer to this question and he’s known it the whole time. “I… draw sometimes.”

“You’re an artist?” Harry says, and he sounds intrigued. 

“Hardly,” Louis says, shaking his head even though Harry can’t see. “It’s something I do in my free time, just a hobby. Quick sketches mostly, some charcoal drawings here and there... I haven’t - it’s been a while.” The last time he drew something was around the last time he dreamed: a long time ago. It feels like a blow to the stomach.

“I bet you’re talented,” Harry remarks. 

“What makes you say that?” Louis asks, because it doesn’t sound like Harry is saying it for the sake of it. It sounds like he _means_ it, which makes no sense. 

“You seem like the type of person to pour their heart into whatever they do and those types of people always make the best artists,” Harry says thoughtfully. “And musicians,” he adds, sounding like he’s smiling. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Louis says, bleary eyes fixing on a row of illuminated rooms of the office building a couple blocks over. They’re all just sleepless in London. “But thanks.” 

They talk a bit more, finding out they go to the same university. Harry’s major is music, of course, and Louis’ is human sciences. Harry seemed surprised by that, and Louis didn’t feel up to explaining how this is actually his third major in three years and though it’s a three year course, he’s still going to graduate a year later than everyone. Even after all the conflict and even though he likes his modules and how flexible it is, he has doubts sometimes. Doubts that this level of satisfaction won’t last. Doubts that he’ll never find what he’s really meant to be doing here in this bizarre life. He’s twenty, for fuck’s sake, how is he supposed to figure out what he wants to do with his life when he often still feels like a child? 

He doesn’t say any of that, switching the subject to other topics. It’s getting lighter out by the time Louis can’t hold back his yawn and Harry urges him to go back inside and catch a few hours of sleep. 

“What about you?” Louis can’t help but ask. “Aren’t you exhausted?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Harry says. “Sleep, Louis. Savor it.” 

There’s a tone in Harry’s voice when he says the latter that has Louis frowning, but he doesn’t push. “Bye, Harry,” he says instead, shoving his hands into his pockets in hopes of leeching some heat. “Thanks for keeping me company.” 

“Anytime,” Harry says, and he sounds like he means it. 

Louis heads back inside, pausing with his hand on the door when the faint sound of music drifts down from Harry’s balcony. A soft smile unfurls across his lips and he shakes his head. Is it just that Harry never sleeps? 

Perrie has to pry him out of bed later so he doesn’t miss his first class, but Louis wakes up feeling a bit refreshed. 

| ☀ |

It’s maybe the fourth night Louis goes out onto the balcony early morning to talk to Harry that soulmates are brought up. 

Truthfully, Louis is the one who brought it up, too curious to hold it back anymore. They’ve talked about plenty of things in their late-night talks: classes, music, siblings, zodiac signs, and more, but Harry has never once alluded to any romantic relationship or secret soulmate. It’s strange, is the thing. Most people jump at the chance to babble about their partner, or the dreams about their future partner if they haven’t gotten that far yet. 

Well, _Louis_ doesn’t talk about his soulmate (or lack thereof) either, but his situation is a bit different. It’s to the point where Louis can’t quell his curiosity, feeling it grate along his mind whenever he sees Harry. 

They’ve come to a point where Harry always climbs down to his balcony to talk to him, sitting up against the railing while Louis leans up against the door, legs parallel but never touching. Every night, Louis comes out and calls up a greeting. Harry always returns it once on his level, and they sit and talk quietly. 

Finals have started now and Louis feels wound up, tension lacing his shoulders and only easing during his time with Harry. It may not be smart to be consistently not sleeping during examination week but Louis figures that if he’s not going to sleep much anyway, he might as well talk to Harry instead of wallowing in his depression. So he goes out every night, and every night, Harry joins him. They talk quietly and eventually Harry will insist on Louis going back to bed and Louis will pretend that Harry’s undeniable concern for him doesn’t make his heart flutter and he’ll let Harry back out through the hallway. 

Yesterday, he asked Harry why he didn’t just come over to Louis’ instead of climbing down and potentially injuring himself - Perrie always wears ear plugs during finals anyway so the ruckus wouldn’t wake her. Harry just said it was tradition at this point, so Louis didn’t press. 

Today, he even offered to walk him back up to his door, not quite ready to say goodbye. They spent the past hour and a half talking about movies and books and why David Cameron is an idiot. But through it all, Louis’ curiosity was lingering, clawing up his throat and begging to spill out. 

And it does. When Louis is walking beside Harry down the hallway, fingers curled into his sleeves, pulling them down over his hands, embarrassingly aware of every inch between their sides, close but far. He asks. 

“Have you met your soulmate?” 

Harry doesn’t flinch or react viscerally in any way, continuing to walk. “Nope,” he says, completely unbothered. The _yet_ was unsaid but Louis feels as if it was implied. “You?” 

Louis ducks his head, biting his lip. “No,” he breathes, hoping his voice sounds as steady as he tries to make it. He didn’t know what he was expecting, really. For Harry to be hiding the same pain he was hiding? For them to be in the same boat? 

Neither of them say another word until they reach Harry’s door. He wraps his hand around the knob and glances at Louis with a frown. “Are you sure you’ll be fine to walk back?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Louis says, blinking away the fogginess of his own mind. “Harry, it’s just one floor.” 

“Yeah, but -” Harry breaks off, shaking his head. He fixes Louis with an intense look as he fumbles for something in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and Louis realizes this is the first time he’s seen it, all of their conversations completely technology-free, just them and the moon. He holds it out to Louis expectantly. “Put your number in. I’ll text you in five minutes.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, feeling amused and endeared as he takes the offered device. Does Harry think he’s going to get murdered on the stairwell or something? He debates adding an emoji to his name like he usually does and just settles for _‘louis,’_ handing it back and holding back a shiver when Harry’s warm fingers brush his, some heat bleeding onto his skin and leaving imprints of Harry’s touch. “Bye, Harry,” he says after a beat. 

“Bye, Lou,” Harry whispers, looking at him with soft eyes. Louis’ heartbeat goes a bit unsteady at the nickname, but mostly at the fondness in his voice. “Get some sleep.”

“You too,” Louis says, almost missing the way Harry’s brows furrow at that. 

“I… I’ll try,” Harry says. “See you tomorrow.” 

“See you tomorrow,” Louis echoes, lips turning up at the ends at the thought. 

Harry’s door shuts without a sound and Louis leans up against the wall to calm his racing heart before he even thinks about walking back. 

| ☀ |

**louis? this is harry**

**_hi harry, made it safely :)_ **

**good xx**

| ☀ |

Maybe Louis should have realized sooner, but he truly didn’t. 

It’s been two days since their soulmate (or lack of soulmate) talk and the first time Louis is seeing Harry since finals ended and he’s officially done with his first semester. He actually had his last exam yesterday, all the stress-sparked adrenaline finally draining out and leaving Louis exhausted. Exhausted enough for him to fall into bed at nine thirty and _sleep_ through the night, missing his usual balcony discussion. 

He woke up feeling better than he has in a week, but still felt disappointed because he genuinely looks forward to his time with Harry, wanting as much of it as possible. When he explained what happened to Harry via text, Harry just brushed it off. 

**if you think i’m mad about you sleeping well, you’re crazy**

**glad you got some rest**

**you seemed so stressed all week**

Flush coating his cheeks, all Louis texted back was a simple smiley face before stuffing the phone back in his pocket and leaving to go to brunch with Perrie. They splurged on crepes and waffles and eggs benedict, toasting to the weeks of freedom ahead of them with tall glasses of orange juice. 

In fact, Louis’ entire day was pretty good. He didn’t have to work and he didn’t have any assignments to procrastinate on either so he and Perrie stayed at the flat and watched movies all day, doing face masks to peel away the grime and sweat of their past week and drinking wine straight from the bottle. 

Louis is buzzing when he goes to bed, but he still remembers to set an alarm for 3:15 am so he won’t miss another chance to talk to Harry. He places his phone on the nightstand and slides into bed with a smile on his face, tucking both layers of blankets around his body and curling up to sleep. 

It must be that the universe is truly on his side today because he falls asleep quickly, and five hours later, he wakes up just as fast. 

Marimba blares in his room, crashing against Louis’ ears like cymbals as he fumbles to turn it off, groaning. His frustration and annoyance evaporates when he remembers _why_ his alarm is ringing. 

Not more than five minutes later, Louis is bundled up in his sweater and coat, hands shoved into mittens and scarf wound around his neck. 

He practically skips out to the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him and calling out his normal greeting. “Hi, Harry!”

It’s a testament to how blinded by his own good mood he was that he didn’t notice that Harry hadn’t been playing his music when he came out like he _always_ is. Not to mention that he doesn’t realize that Harry broke his tradition of climbing down _before_ returning his hello, nor does he hear anything off in Harry’s voice when he says, “Hey, Louis.”

Louis shuffles up to the railing, frowning when he hears no sign of Harry climbing down to meet him. “Is everything okay?” he asks, whisper drifting with the wind. 

“Yeah… just don’t feel like practicing. I texted you to not bother coming out tonight but I was afraid you wouldn’t see it so I came out to wait for you anyway,” he explains. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.” 

Frown growing, Louis opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, then shuts it. He feels like Harry won’t appreciate it if he prods any further, and the last thing Louis wants to do is annoy him. Still, he feels unsettled by the bleakness in Harry’s voice, the tone that borders on _hopeless._ It’s all too familiar. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Louis asks timidly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I’m here if you do. You don’t have to come down, just pretend I’m not even here.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything at first, and it’s so silent that Louis almost feels like he’s completely alone out here, but then he hears a cleared throat. “I can’t sleep,” Harry says. 

“Oh,” Louis breathes, soft and concerned. “Tonight?”

“No, every night,” Harry says, sounding bitter. “I have insomnia. I haven’t slept through the night since I was fifteen.” The words come out all jagged and sharp, a stark contrast from Harry’s usual gentle, calm timbre. It sounds like Harry is pulling the words from deep in his throat, like it pains him to speak. 

“Oh,” Louis breathes. “Oh, Harry.” 

“I don’t need any pity, I’m used to it,” Harry says, quieter now. “S’ just… frustrating, is all. Sometimes all I want to do is sleep. I’m so tired. So fucking tired.” 

“Is there… have you talked to a doctor?” Louis asks softly, heart aching at the pain in Harry’s voice. He thinks about how Harry is always up practicing at three in the morning, but how he could be playing for much longer. How he always encourages Louis to get as much sleep as he can. _Savor it,_ he had said. 

Louis feels so stupid. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, “plenty of doctors. They recommended everything they could think of - pills, meditation, music, a diet…. None of it worked. And after a point I just stopped trying. I live off coffee, however unhealthy it is. I’ve been living here… over a month now? Haven’t laid down on my bed once. On the rare days, I feel exhausted enough to nap - maybe an hour, two if I’m lucky - I sleep on the couch. The worst part is that I have no fucking idea what causes it, so I have no idea how to fix it. I don’t have some buried childhood trauma that my brain is trying to process. Nothing stressing me out has been consistent for five years. There’s no explanation. It just is. I’m just sleepless.”

“So you practice,” Louis murmurs.

“I practice,” Harry echoes, a succession of thumps from him tapping his fingers against the railing reaching Louis’ ears. “It’s so quiet at night, early in the morning. No one else is up. I’m all alone. It’s so quiet, so I practice. I play the violin until my fingers are stiff and sore and wait for the sun.” 

“Harry,” Louis breathes, not knowing what else to say.

“When the sun rises, it means the dark is gone and I’m not alone.” Harry pauses for a moment. “The sun is what saves me. It, quite literally, brings back the light. It’s my salvation. My solace.” There’s a heavy sadness in his voice that makes Louis’ heart pang. For a minute, neither of them say a word.

“And right now,” Louis blurts, breaking through the silence. “You’re not practicing?” 

“Too tired,” Harry mumbles. “The thing about we humans is that we need sleep to function. We can go without it for a while, but eventually we crash. I live off of short bursts of rest throughout the week, but it’s never really enough. I feel _dead,_ Louis. I can’t practice. Not until I fall asleep again. So sorry for bailing on you, but I need to go and hope the universe takes pity on me for once.” 

Louis bites his lip. “Okay,” he says, wishing he could offer a solution. Wishing he could help somehow, that he could erase the defeat lacing Harry’s voice. The resignation that tells him that Harry is pretty sure he won’t be getting the sleep he wants. “Okay, go sleep, Harry.” He pauses for a moment. “Thank you for telling me.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, voice ragged. “Lou - Louis. Don’t blame yourself or anything, okay? I like talking to you. I mean it when I say I know when I won’t be able to sleep, and when I will. You’re not keeping me from rest. I practice whether you’re there or not.” 

Exhaling, Louis’ cheeks warm. How did Harry know exactly what he was thinking? “Alright,” is all he says. “Bye, Harry. Sweet dreams.” 

“I don’t dream, but thanks,” Harry chuckles. “Bye, Lou.” 

Louis stills, lips parting. _I don’t dream._ He remains outside, blinking into the sky, long after the sound of Harry’s door sliding shut rings through the air. 

| ☀ |

It’s a lack of REM sleep, Louis learns. REM sleep, or ‘rapid eye movement’ sleep. It’s the fourth stage of the sleep cycle, and the juncture where people experience dreams. He gets a bit caught up in the explanations, eyes blurring as he reads about the theories of Sigmund Freud and other studies conducted over the years. 

He vaguely remembers learning about this stuff in school, information planted and later buried amidst the chaos of his brain, known then forgotten. He relearns everything now, taking in every detail as if it will lead him through the labyrinth of questions that’s been built in his head since he and Harry talked early that morning. 

Non-REM sleep lasts an hour or two, he reads. The first cycle of REM sleep is only a few minutes, slipping by quickly. The period grows longer throughout the night… that is, if one can manage to sleep that long. 

Harry doesn’t. Harry rarely does. Harry _never dreams._

Louis feels jittery all day, unable to distract himself from classes now that he’s on break, and not knowing what to do with himself. It feels like a relief when Perrie suggests they go to the cinema, but even then he spends the majority of the movie tapping his fingers against the arm rest, leftover salt from the popcorn they devoured during previews sticking to his tongue, every fidget too loud for the quietness of the theatre. 

No matter how much he tries to pay attention, he walks onto the street having remembered little of anything, listening to Perrie chatter about her likes and dislikes and pretending like he knows exactly what she’s talking about. He can’t help it. It’s on the forefront of his mind all the time, this frisson of a possibility. So close he could reach out and grasp it, but instead he veers away. 

He has a shift at five. He doesn’t usually, but when MJ texted the group chat and said he was sick and couldn’t come in, he volunteered within minutes, aching for a good distraction. Reshelving books proves to be somewhat helpful, hands moving almost completely on autopilot as he lifts and places novels mechanically. 

Valeria is working the register tonight, only him and Luci on shift and both working on restocking. Louis has a few more stacks of books to do on his cart and then he can grab the memoir he’s been reading in slow phases and read a bit. 

Luci wheels her cart into the same aisle as him a minute later, humming a song under her breath that Louis doesn’t recognize. She glances at him, taking in his tensed posture and the pout of his lips, and arches an eyebrow in question. 

“It’s nothing,” Louis dismisses, far from in a good enough mood to handle social interaction. His mind is racing a million miles a minute, sparking and crackling just under his skin, close to burning him. 

But she doesn’t seem to take the hint, pushing on. “Thinking about Neighbor Boy again?” she teases. “Or Neighbor _Man,_ I suppose.” She’s actually been mentioning Harry to Louis a lot lately, asking about him and reading Louis about liking him. It’s not the first time she’s nagged Louis about his love life and he’s sure it won’t be the last. Normally, it’s not that big of a deal, usually giving her enough information to appease her nosiness before strategically moving away, but today Louis isn’t in the mood. To appease, or anything at all. 

“Just - don’t, okay?” he says, irritated. He doesn’t know why he keeps talking, words falling from his lips like he needs them to crystalize in air, like he needs to make sure he’s not going insane. “This is potentially about my soulmate. It’s _important._ I’m not in the mood to talk about it.” He turns away. 

“Ooo, your soulmate?” Luci says, curiosity in her voice. 

He bites his lip, annoyance growing, but doesn’t give her the satisfaction of answering. He won’t become the next shiny new thing for her to fixate on. 

“You never talk about your soulmate, huh,” she says. “Have you met them?” 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, the pitiful attempt at remaining impassive withering away in seconds. “Don’t,” he says, sharp and harsh. It makes her still, taken aback. He back tracks, trying to soften his voice but failing. “It’s not… it’s not an easy subject for me. Just leave me alone.”

“Alright, geez,” Luci mutters. “Someone’s in a bad mood.” 

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Louis can’t help but say, the frustration of the entire day building up until he no longer has control of what comes out of his mouth. She doesn’t _get it,_ and it shouldn’t matter, but it does. 

It matters right now, when his fingers are twitching with the urge to do what he refuses. With his mind constantly whirling from possibility to possibility, a dangerous and treacherous _hope_ smouldering through him. 

So distracting that Luci’s scoff almost goes unheard. But he catches it, frowning. “Like you’re the only one with soulmate problems,” she murmurs, almost under her breath. 

His head whips around to glance at her, but she’s concentrating heavily on her books again. Her words repeat in his head until they lose all meaning. She clearly didn’t intend for him to hear that but he still has an urge to ask what she meant, to find the root of the bitterness in her tone. But he hesitates, uncertainty filling his mouth. 

A few minutes later, she rolls her cart to a different aisle, taking any frayed threads of their conversation with her. Louis bites his lip, turning back slowly to the shelves and trying to remember what he was doing. 

He realizes then that he’s never thought of initiating a conversation with Luci, never considered trying to get to know her. He’s always thought her to be overly-talkative and too invested in other people’s lives, but it’s only now struck him that she talks so much about those other people and never herself. 

In fact, his entire perception of her is based on assumptions and judgements. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t really know Luci Gonzales at all. 

When his shift ends, he lets Valeria pull him into a hug, inhaling the smell of her perfume and leeching comfort from her familiar embrace. Valeria has always had a knack for seeing when one of her employees were struggling, not necessarily with work either. Louis has had the pleasure of being hugged by her many a time before, always on days when he needed it the most. With today’s, he nearly cries, exhausted and weary from the day he’s had and the lingering confusion from his conversation with Luci. 

She left a couple minutes ago, not even saying goodbye. They don’t talk much, yes, but they pretty much always say goodbye to each other. It’s polite, it’s tradition, it’s normal. 

Today is very abnormal, he decides. 

Perrie’s already ordered takeout when he gets back to the flat and they eat noodles while watching _Dancing with the Stars_ because it’s a guilty pleasure for both of them. He slumps into bed earlier than usual, mind still distracted by Luci and Harry and dreams he’s never dreaming. 

He wakes up early the next morning and goes out to talk to Harry, moving like a robot. Though he is glad to see that Harry’s in a better mood tonight, telling Louis he caught a few hours of sleep after their last talk and from a short nap after lunch. 

They talk about their days and Louis just barely holds himself back from blurting everything that’s been racing through his mind, a million questions prodding at his lips but one reigning above them all. He doesn’t ask. 

Harry finally tells him to go back to bed when he yawns for the third time, having tried to muffle it but failing miserably. 

“Go to sleep, Lou,” Harry urges him. “Tomorrow is another day. The sun will rise and set and we’ll be here again.” 

Louis finds himself biting his lip, mustering up some courage to say, “What about the day?” he blurts. It comes out rushed, a bit nervous, and he suddenly feels like he’s in secondary school again, blushing when the boy he fancied from the rugby team so much as glanced his direction. 

“What about it?” Harry asks, sounding confused. 

“I was just thinking,” Louis says, before hesitating. It’s irrational but he can’t help but panic that maybe Harry doesn’t _want_ to hang out with him during the day, or even in the same room. _We’re friends,_ he tells himself. They ought to be at this point. Louis doesn’t just brave the cold December night air for anyone. “Do you maybe… want to go somewhere tomorrow - er, _today -_ later… like… during the day? Like, together?”

He expects Harry to at least take a second to think about it but to his surprise he just says, “Sure,” as easy as that. “Where to?”

“Oh,” Louis breathes, having not thought that far ahead. He fumbles for an idea, but it’s like Harry’s blown every semblance of a coherent thought out of his mind. “I don’t know.” 

“Leave it to me,” Harry says after a beat, sounding unbothered. “I’ll text you.” 

“Alright,” Louis says, glad Harry can’t see the way his cheeks have reddened - too much for him to blame the bite of the cold. “See you then.”

“Sleep well, Louis,” Harry whispers. The way he says it sounds so sincere, like there’s nothing more Harry wants than for Louis to get some rest.

“Take care, Harry,” Louis says softly, and he knows he sounds just as earnest. 

Right before Louis slides the door shut and returns to bed, he hears the faded notes of a violin drift down from below. His fingers still on the glass and he straightens up, eyes fluttering shut. Harry’s playing something sweeter than he normally does, almost like a lullaby. It seeps into Louis’ chilled bones and makes a home between his ribs, settling the storm that’s been raging inside him all day. He goes to sleep feeling calm. 

| ☀ |

Harry takes him to IKEA. 

Louis was bewildered when Harry told him, but he didn’t question it, getting into the passenger seat of Harry’s car when Harry kindly opened it for him. The interior smells like generic minty air freshener and old cologne, and Louis breathes in too much of it, very sure he’ll still be smelling it hours later. All in all, Harry’s car seems to suit him - he’s got one of those cliche ‘Eat. Sleep. Play Violin,’ bumper stickers and there’s a bunch of random things in his glove compartment such as a bottle of Gatorade, sheet music, a Packers beanie, and a half-empty bag of chips. 

He knows because the first thing Harry said to him when he sat down was to try and find the phone charger that was buried somewhere in the midst of all the mess. 

“I can’t even hook it up to this piece of shit, but the charger’s my roommate’s and he’s been nagging me about it,” Harry explains, both hands gripping the wheel deliberately. He’s chewing gum, dressed in a flannel shirt with too many buttons undone and worn jeans. Louis wonders if he ever truly gets cold.

It takes him five minutes to find the charger but he finds it, pastel purple and looking like it’s seen better days. Harry thanks him and he finally asks, “Why the hell are we going to a furniture store?” 

“Ah, funny story,” Harry says, brows furrowing but eyes still fixed straight ahead on the road. “So, about a month ago - probably just a few weeks after we moved in, actually - me and my roommate broke our coffee table -”

“Wait, what,” Louis says, whipping his head around to look at Harry who’s still focusing ahead at the road. He wasn’t expecting that answer at all. 

“- and it’s been a hard few weeks watching TV without having somewhere to put your shit,” Harry continues, pursing his lips. “Pretty sure we’ll be finding crumbs between the cushions forever at this point. But alas, our suffering is over. Mainly because my sister told me she wouldn’t let us use her Netflix account anymore if she came over this weekend and had nowhere to put her feet.”

“You know, sometimes you honestly baffle me,” Louis says, unsure if he really wanted to know how this incident occurred. Harry’s mentioned the shenanigans that he and his ever-elusive roommate have gotten up to but he’s never said his name. Louis’ beginning to think Harry is doing it to mess with him. “I’m genuinely concerned.”

Harry hums, flicking the radio to a random station. “I’m a dream.” 

They go to IKEA and look for coffee tables. 

“Just a reminder that we’ve got a limited budget - the typical struggling uni student budget, you know what I mean. We actually got our old coffee table at a car boot sale for a few pounds but maybe that’s why it broke,” Harry says as they inspect a mahogany model. He’s been tapping the wood to ‘test the rhythm,’ claiming that he needs a coffee table that he can tap out the beats for songs like a metronome. It’s a strange requirement for buying a piece of furniture and the IKEA employee who makes the mistake of asking if she can help them with anything seems to agree. 

Louis just goes with it, pretending he knows exactly what Harry’s seeking as he pats tables and listens for the sound. “You’re acting different,” he says carefully, finally able to get it out. He’s been noticing it since Harry knocked on his flat door for them to go, finally meeting Perrie who kept sending Louis knowing looks that he dutifully ignored. And, really, is his type really that obvious? 

“How so?” Harry asks, not sound offended or affronted by his words. 

“I don’t know, you’re just so… upbeat,” Louis says carefully. 

“It’s the caffeine,” Harry says, looking up from a rustic teal-stained table with a smile. “Three shots every morning. It gets me through my morning classes and then I crash after lunch before taking another three for the afternoon. It keeps me awake but drained. I usually spend the first half of the night recovering.” 

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis says, shaking his head. “And none of that has any affect on your… abilities?” He waves a hand around vaguely, thinking about Harry’s measured pace when he plays, no flaws in his careful movements. 

“Actually, I find that it does wonders to stamina,” Harry says. Louis can’t tell if he’s talking about violin or something else and it makes his cheeks color. “But, I mean, that’s why I practice the most effectively really early in the morning. When most of the caffeine has filtered out and it’s just me again - tired, but awake.” 

Louis doesn’t know what to say after that so he turns and crouches next to the nearest table - it’s white with two levels and it feels smooth when he flattens his palm against the surface. “This is a nice one,” he says. 

He nearly flinches when Harry sidles up right next to him, frozen in place when Harry reaches over and places his hand over Louis.’ Heat sinks into his skin and his heart stutters, feeling almost dizzy - dizzy at the proximity, and dizzy at how Harry’s fingers cover his hand until it can no longer be seen. He doesn’t realize what Harry’s doing until Harry lifts his hand for him and uses it to tap on the wood. 

It can’t be more than a minute that Louis is suspended in this intense instance with Harry’s hand wrapped around his, creating a rhythm he can’t hear over the pounding of his heart. It can’t be more than a minute, but Louis feels like he’s run a marathon by the time Harry lets go, humming. 

“This is the one,” he says, sounding pleased. “Thanks, Lou.” 

They go down to the first floor to find the model in the warehouse, but Harry gets distracted by the plants and decorative pillows for a bit and they spend ten minutes bickering about whether bright but single-colored pillows were better accents to a minimalistic room or patterned ones. 

Eventually, they do actually get the table, checking out and then stopping by the food court because Louis insists that Harry needs to reimburse him for help in the form of delectable cinnamon rolls. They both get them, sitting at one of those high round tables and chatting with sticky lips and sweet tongues. 

Harry drives him back to his flat and Louis handles the music, looking through the collection of CDs Harry has lying all over the place because his radio doesn’t work anymore. He finds an ABBA disc under the seat to play and even though the quality is questionable and the fumes from the air freshener might be imprinting into his nose forever, Louis feels unmistakably light. 

There’s still that underlying buzz beneath his skin, echoes of _insomnia_ and _soulmate_ curling up his throat, but when Harry says something - when he smiles at Louis with both dimples showing or when he gives him that look that’s almost _fond_ , those echoes disappear.

Louis has never felt anything like this - this dizzy flutter of his lungs and pattering of his heart, this rosy pink flush across his skin, this warm rush through his veins. Attraction and connection and chemistry but tenfold - overwhelmingly, maddeningly, utterly, completely. He tries to tamp it down but it breaks through his attempts, tendrils of gilded _hope_ wrapping around his body. 

Pushing at his lips when he says, “Bye, Harry. Thanks for the cinnamon rolls.” Squeezing his heart when Harry leans over and brushes the pad of his thumb over the corner of his lip in response, murmuring that there’s a bit of glaze he missed. 

“See you when the moon is out,” he says then, eyes meeting Louis’. 

Overwhelmingly, maddeningly, utterly, completely breathless, Louis just nods. Harry smiles at him just before he shuts the door, dimples disappearing behind the wood along with the dizzy feeling in his chest. 

He blinks at the wood, wondering just how big of a predicament he’s now found himself in. 

| ☀ |

Luci has been avoiding him. 

It’s been a few days now since their admittedly tense conversation, and Luci is pretending as if he doesn’t exist, ignoring out his hesitant greetings and staying silent. In fact, she hasn’t been chatting much to anyone during their past two shifts, mumbling incoherent responses to Valeria’s instructions and keeping to herself in a way Louis has never seen before. It’s disjointing, and a bit alarming. 

Louis never realized how much Luci’s talking contributed to the atmosphere of the bookshop, how much her voice was as natural as the sound of pages flipping and carts rolling against the carpeted floor. Her presence felt like a given, something to always count on. Valeria’s niece, the gossip, the shining one. Integral, and now gone. 

He can’t help but keep replaying their last conversation, wondering if it’s _his_ fault that she’s acting so distant. Rationally, that doesn’t make much sense. He may not know Luci very well but he knows she doesn’t let anyone else’s shit get in her way. It has to be something else.

Though he’s not quite sure he’ll be of much success, he finds himself making his way to where she’s reorganzing the shelf they have up front with all the newest releases in the biggest genres. She’s moving as mechanically as Louis was that dismal day, eyes darting from the book to the shelf like an automaton, lips flattened and eyes dim. 

“Hey, Luci?” he says softly, feeling guilty when she flinches and nearly drops the book she’s holding. Turning slowly, she looks over at him with nothing but confusion on her face. Like him reaching out to her is so unusual. 

It’s not like he can blame her. He’s never initiated a conversation with her like this, never tried to. In the grand scheme of things, Louis doesn’t really know Luci Gonzales at all. But he’s beginning to see now that he wants to. 

“I was just wondering… how’ve you been?” he asks, wincing at his lack of subtlety. 

Luci’s eyebrows draw together and she frowns. “Why do you care?” 

He grimaces, moving to sit down on the floor. “Look, I know we’re not really friends and it’s mainly my fault,” he says slowly, “but believe me when I say I don’t like seeing you so down and that I’m here if you want to talk.” He clasps his sleeve-covered hands and tilts his head. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener.” 

She sighs. “It’s nothing, just… having a bad week.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, wondering if he’s meant to pry a bit more or wait for her to volunteer the information. 

The latter ends up being what occurs. Luci puts the book down and looks at him. “Remember what I said last time? About how you aren’t the only one with soulmate problems?” 

His heart twists but he manages a jerky nod. So this has to do with her soulmate. Now that he’s thinking about it, he’s heard Luci talk about her casual flings and hook-ups plenty of times in the past, but she’s never once brought up her soulmate. Louis never even noticed until now. “Tell me about it,” he says after a second, recognizing that she needs the reassurance. 

“Where to start,” she says, half-chuckling. It falls flat. 

“Have you… met them?” he asks carefully, starting with something straightforward. 

“I… Yeah,” Luci says, a layer of emotion in her voice that wasn’t there before. She ducks her head, strands of brown hair falling over her face but still not masking the sadness and regret weighing down on her features. “Sort of.”

He offers a soft smile when she glances at him, gesturing for her to continue. 

“My soulmate is someone I know from secondary school,” she reveals slowly. “She… she and I didn’t start off on the right foot. It was my fault. I… was very immature back then. Desperate to fit in. I didn’t really hang out with very nice people, and one of them -” She breaks off, shaking her head. “I never said anything. I never told her off. I should have. I did a lot of stupid shit back then.” 

“Oh, Luci…” Louis trails off, realization dawning on him. 

“I remember that I tried to apologize,” Luci murmurs. “I bumped into her at Tesco’s after graduation and tried to say sorry. She told me to go to hell.” She tips her head back, looking pained. “My birthday’s November 1st and I think it was maybe four days later that I got my first dream,” she says softly. “It was a short one, really vague. But I was excited, so excited. I didn’t get my second one till I was almost nineteen, and that’s - that’s when I saw her.”

Louis bites his lip, feeling sad.

“I saw her… but she saw _me,”_ Luci says, squeezing her eyes shut. “Well, being rejected by your soulmate really sucks, but being rejected by your soulmate and knowing you deserve it? Ten times worse.” She shakes her head. “I saw her on the Tube right before that shift. It was so unexpected and she didn’t even see me back, I don’t think. I actually could tell you weren’t in the talking mood, but you know that feeling where it’s like the world is falling apart around you and the only way to hold on is by talking to someone? That’s what I was feeling. And then you were short with me and I was short with you back.” 

“Luci,” Louis says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m so sorry. For not realizing something was off on that day. For… all of it.”

She gives him a thin-lipped smile. “It’s fine… I’ve pretty much come to terms with it,” she says, smoothing out the fabric of her shirt. “If there’s ever a chance for something between us… well, it’ll be on her call. And I just have to live with it.”

He doesn’t respond, knowing Luci doesn’t want his encouragement or reassurances either. He just nods, and after a moment’s hesitation, reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says after a moment.

Luci offers him a half-smile, genuine. Then she clears her throat and fixes him with an intense stare. “So, I don’t know if you want to reciprocate and share your own soulmate woes but I’ll tell you this anyway. If you’ve got a chance to find your soulmate and be with them. If you’ve got even the _smallest_ of chances. You have to take it,” she says, shaking her head when he tries to explain that it’s not that simple for him. “No, I’m serious. Don’t take these things for granted, Louis. It’s a beautiful thing - finding your missing half. I’d do anything to experience it.” 

In the end, Louis can’t argue with her words. He just nods. 

Looking satisfied, Luci changes the topic to something else - something trivial and similar to what she’s always chattering on about. Same, but completely different. Louis sits and eventually starts helping her organize the different stacks. 

He sits and he listens. He learns things about Luci Gonzales, and slowly, he starts to know her. 

By the time their shift ends, Valeria has already come over to check on them, doing a poor job at concealing her confusion at their new and unexpected camaraderie, joking and talking and smiling at each other. She squeezes them both before they leave, ever observant, ever lovely. 

Louis walks back to the flat, shivering a bit from the cold and sleeves pulled way over his freezing hands. He doesn’t regret it, needing the time to process his conversation with Luci and to just _think._

Perrie’s out with a friend so he has the flat to himself for a few hours. He paces the length of the hallway, swerving into the kitchen then veering to the living room. He walks and overthinks and gathers the courage. Eventually he gets too hungry so he pulls out some leftover pasta and heats it up, bouncing up on his toes as he waits for the microwave to ding. He eats his dinner and then continues his pacing, down the hallway into the kitchen and to the living room. Again, and again, and again. Perrie comes home, takes a look at him, and sees he needs to be left alone, shutting herself in her room to call her parents. 

It’s ten thirty when he grabs his laptop and sits down at his desk, curling and uncurling his fingers. It shouldn’t have taken him this long to get here, but he won’t dwell on those minor details - drama queens will be drama queens, and all. But it’s not even just that - it’s that he’s _scared._

Scared to consider the notion, scared to become attached to the flicker of hope settling in his heart, scared to be inevitably disappointed. He’s scared. _It’s a beautiful thing,_ Luci said. _If you’ve got even the smallest of chances._

With a final deep breath, Louis pulls up Google and types it out oh so slowly. He stares with bated breath, heart pounding in his ribs. His finger shakes as he presses ‘enter,’ solidifying his search and bringing up over a hundred results. More than he expected. The first one catches his eye, searing into his brain. He almost bursts into tears. 

_“My soulmate is an insomniac and it took me five years to realize.”_

| ☀ |

Perrie opens her door, looking frazzled and concerned. “What? What happened?” she asks, panic in her voice. 

Louis can’t really blame her, knowing very well that he currently looks pale and shaken thanks to a detour to the hallway mirror. He just brushes past her, flopping onto her bed. 

“Lou, are you okay?” she asks worriedly, taking a seat on the bed and squeezing his arm. 

He shakes his head, turning over until his cheek is pressed into her pink sheets and she can see the red-rimmed puffy mess that is his eyes. 

“Oh, babe, what happened?” she asks, sadness coating her tone. 

When he speaks, his voice quavers. “Perrie, what if my soulmate is an insomniac?” 

She stares at him, taken aback. “Wait, what?” 

“What if my soulmate is living right above us?” he continues, squeezing his eyes shut. “What if my soulmate has been right under my nose this whole time and I never even knew it?” 

“Okay, explain,” Perrie says, pinching his ribs through his sleep shirt and making him jerk. 

Huffing affrontedly, Louis rolls over until he’s on his back, folding his arms over his chest protectively. “Did you know that most insomniacs still get soulmate dreams?” he says conversationally. 

“Louis,” Perrie says warningly. 

“Humor me,” he murmurs. When she doesn’t protest, he continues, “Majority of insomniacs still get enough sleep from time to time to dream - to get _the_ dreams. But there’s a small percentage that don’t. A _really_ small percentage - I only found stories from two online after hours of scrolling.” He spares her a brief glance. “Two online and one in real life. Harry doesn’t dream.”

“Harry’s an insomniac,” Perrie says slowly, eyes widening. Her mouth drops open and she repeats his words dumbly, “Harry doesn’t dream.” 

He shakes his head even though it wasn’t a question. “I’ve always found the whole syncing up of sleep cycles one of the coolest parts of soulmates,” he says wonderingly. “Going to sleep and knowing your soulmate is somewhere nearby asleep at the same time, that you’re both safe in your dreams - sometimes even _together.”_

“Oh my God,” Perrie whispers, understanding. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Louis says slowly. It’s not a confession. Perrie knows -no matter how much he’s tried to brush it off or be discreet about his trips to the kitchen for warm milk, she knows. It’s not a confession, but it feels monumental all the same. “Ever since my eighteenth birthday, I haven’t been sleeping as well. It was barely noticeable at first, but I did - notice. I’d say it’s been a pretty steady decline over the years but these past two months have been the worst.” 

Perrie doesn’t need him to finish. “Harry moved in two months ago,” she says, shock lacing her tone. “Holy shit,” she breathes, letting out a startled laugh. “Holy shit, Lou, do you know what this means?” 

“It means nothing,” he says. Flat. Frustrated. “It means nothing because I don’t know _for sure._ And I won’t until I get the dream… One of those people online had to wait five years.” He swallows, shutting his eyes. “The other had to wait _twenty.”_

“Louis,” Perrie says, stern. “He’s our _neighbor.”_

“What if he’s not?” Louis asks helplessly. “What if it’s not Harry? What if I’m wrong?”

“How does Harry make you feel?” Perrie asks softly. 

He doesn’t answer, gravel in his throat, grating against his lungs. 

“I’ll tell you how my soulmate makes me feel,” Perrie says, leaving no room for argument. She met her soulmate before they were friends, and they’ve been together ever since - him in Manchester and her in London for most of the year, but always making it work. She rarely spoke about the actual soulmates part of it and though she’s never said anything about it, Louis knows she does it for his sake. That seems to have gone straight out the window. “The first time we met, I could almost feel everything shift into place. I had never seen his face in my dreams by that point, only heard his voice, but he didn’t even have to open his mouth.”

“The only thing I remember feeling when I first met Harry was _terror,”_ Louis says flatly, thinking back to the stunt Harry pulled dropping down out of nowhere because he was concerned. “Maybe a bit of annoyance that I was going to die with tears streaming down my face and toes freezing off, but mostly terror.”

Perrie rolls her eyes. He doesn’t see it, but he doesn’t need to. “Okay, then how about how he makes you feel in general,” she says. “My soulmate can brighten my mood with just a small smile. Just talking to him on the phone makes it feel like the world and all other problems fall away. He _sees_ me. Ever since I met him, I no longer feel lonely, because he’s always with me. We fit into each other.” 

Louis exhales. 

“Is that what it feels like for you and Harry?” Perrie asks.

“I don’t - I don’t know,” Louis stammers. Some of it is undeniably right - the way Harry can erase all the tension and pressure in his lungs unconsciously, the way he brightens Louis’ mood… Do they fit into each other? Louis doesn’t know - how is he supposed to? 

“That’s okay,” Perrie says, shrugging. “Because you can find out.”

 _How?_ he thinks. But he supposes that’s the thing. He has to figure it out himself. 

“Want some ice cream?” Perrie asks after a minute of silence.

Louis sits up. “Yes, please.” 

| ☀ |

Harry’s text is waiting for him when he wakes up at three in the morning, words remaining even after he’s blinked away the lingering tendrils of sleep and blurriness. There’s three of them. 

**do you want to come up instead of outside?**

**checked the weather and it’s really cold tonight**

**i have leftover chocolate cake… and puzzles?**

Louis’ lips twitch and he types out a quick ** _i love puzzles_** before grabbing his jacket and sliding some long socks on. It’s tragically too far into December to go around without them, even with shoes. 

He slips out of the flat as quietly as he can, not wanting to wake Perrie up after they stayed up so late eating ice cream and watching _New Girl_ already. He grips his phone in his hand, feeling it vibrate right as he pushes the door gently shut. Harry’s calling him. 

“Hello,” he whispers, any volume louder seeming too harsh against the deserted hallway. 

“Did you leave yet?” Harry asks, his sleepy voice gliding through the line and into his ear like smooth syrup, making him shiver. 

“Yeah,” Louis hums, beginning to walk and keeping his phone pressed to his ear. He’s pretty sure he knows what Harry’s doing and that’s only confirmed as Harry doesn’t hang up, telling him about how he has leftover cake because he helped plan a birthday party for a friend and got first dibs on remaining food. 

However unsubtle Harry is being, Louis admittedly does feel a lot safer walking up the stairs under a dim light with Harry’s warm voice speaking into his ear, like he’s there even though he’s not. He tells Harry when he reaches his door, not having to wait more than three seconds before the door is open. He hangs up, smiling. 

Harry stands before him, dressed in sweats and a threadbare gray shirt that clings to his shoulders. He gestures for Louis to come in, shutting the door after him quickly, the click of the lock echoing in the air. 

“You know there’s not actually a murderer in our apartment complex, right,” Louis murmurs, amused. 

“Better to be safe than sorry,” Harry tells him, nudging his side gently before heading deeper into the flat. It hits Louis then that this is the first time he’s been here - standing in the space that Harry comes home to every day. The lights are all on because Harry’s mysterious, still nameless roommate is out and won’t be back till morning, leaving the place free for Louis’ eyes to take in. 

He takes note of pretty much everything as Harry gives him a quick tour - the color of the rug before the door, the chair at the living room that’s missing an arm rest, the eccentric patterned mugs lining the counter by the sink, and the very familiar white coffee table set next to a sagging couch, boxes of puzzles spread out on its surface. 

“You put it together already?” Louis asks, surprised. 

“Yeah, a few hours ago,” Harry says, shrugging. “Was bored.” 

Harry gestures for him to sit down and he does, making a show of stretching his feet out and placing them on the table. “Just so you know, I’m doing this for your benefit, but you are most definitely not allowed to put your feet on mine and Perrie’s coffee table,” Louis tells him. “We have rules.” 

“Got it,” Harry says, sitting down right next to him. Having not expected that, Louis nearly flinches. “So which puzzle do you want to start with?” 

“Let me see,” Louis says, reaching for the stack and looking at their covers curiously. They’re all relatively big, ranging from a thousand to a couple thousand pieces. There’s one of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ and another that’s entirely filled with dogs. He finds his favorite at the bottom though. “Please explain to me why this is in your possession?” he asks, turning to Harry and trying his best to keep a straight face as he holds up the pink box, _Barbie and the Diamond Castle_ printed on its front along with an image from the movie. 

“That gem actually belongs to my god-daughter,” Harry says, grinning. “I’ve heard nothing but good things though.” 

“I’m partial to the _Fairytopia_ one myself,” Louis says, trying not to think about Harry having a god-daughter, or Harry with kids as a concept in general. “Think I’ve even got a Bibble plushie somewhere.” He wasn’t even joking, having watched probably all of the existing Barbie movies thanks to his younger sisters (and maybe a secret fondness to them, but he’d never admit it), but he definitely wasn’t expecting Harry’s reply. 

“You’re adorable,” he says. Easily, like it’s no big deal. 

Louis is proud to say that he doesn’t choke on his saliva, but he doesn’t know how much of a victory it is considering he’s pretty sure he almost stops breathing for a second. Harry seems completely oblivious, taking the box out of his hands and considering it with pursed lips. 

“I think we should do it,” he says, but Louis doesn’t hear, too busy thinking _are you my soulmate?_ “Lou?” 

He snaps out of it, willing away the flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, sure.” He clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “You said something about cake?” 

| ☀ |

Louis wakes up slowly, blinking sluggish and body still lax. He feels strangely well-rested, but he still refrains from getting up and instead nuzzles deeper into his pillow and the warm blanket pulled over him. He’s warm and content, breathing even and mind relaxed. 

It takes him a few minutes to realize this blanket is not as soft as the ones he buys. And then another minute and his eyes opening to realize that this pillow is the wrong color and so are the sheets. He sits up, disoriented and confused. 

Another minute and he remembers. 

He’s at Harry’s. He stayed over last night, too tired to protest when Harry offered his bed to him after they finished their puzzle (it took them a long time, delayed by a missing piece from the castle in the background that Louis eventually found under the damn coffee table), stomachs filled with cake and the hot chocolate Harry made for them about halfway through putting Liana together. 

Harry’s… He’s at Harry’s… He’s _in Harry’s bed._

The realization makes him jolt up, eyes widening and heart leaping to his throat. He looks around, taking in the room around him and seeing different facets of Harry reflected back at him. Photos hung on the wall, sheet music spread on the desk, a gym duffel abandoned unceremoniously by the door, a row of plants on the windowsill. Harry, Harry, Harry. 

Technically, it’s not like Harry uses this bed much. He told Louis he’s slept in it maybe less than five times. But it’s still _his_ bed, located in _his_ room, and now Louis is sitting in the middle of it, dizzy and overwhelmed. 

_Am I sitting in my soulmate’s room?_

The unanswerable question echoes in his head, fizzling out as he slides off the mattress and into the floor. He doesn’t remember leaving the living room and going to bed earlier this morning, but he follows the faint sound of ruckus out into the hallway and eventually to the kitchen where he finds Harry rummaging through the cabinets. 

He’s so distracted in whatever the hell he’s doing that Louis has to clear his throat three times in progressing volume until he hears and nearly bumps his head into the wood with how fast he looks up.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Harry calls out. 

Suddenly feeling a lot warmer, Louis attempts a smile. “Good morning, Harry.” He raises a brow, gaze dropping to the package of chocolate chips clutched in his big hands. “What’s up?” 

Harry glances down at them as if he forgot they were there, or like he forgot what he was even doing in the first place. “Oh, yeah, I’m making chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “I haven’t made them in a long time but you mentioned you loved them last night and I have the ingredients, so.”

Louis just - fish-mouths. “Who are you?” he blurts before he can think it through. Who is this crazy attractive man that calls Louis adorable and wants to make him breakfast and can he please, please, please be his soulmate? 

“I’m just Harry,” Harry says, shrugging. “Now sit down and look pretty. Let me wow you with my top-notch kitchen skills.”

He nods, but he hops up onto the counter instead of sitting on a chair and Harry doesn’t look surprised at all. He makes Louis chocolate chip pancakes and _maybe_ he swipes some batter onto Louis’ nose and _maybe_ Louis squawks and kicks him in the ribs and _maybe_ he almost drops said batter, but hey - the pancakes are delicious. 

| ☀ |

It’s completely unspoken, the way Louis and Harry switch from balcony sessions under the moon to cozy hours in Harry’s living room. Unspoken as in they never actually talked about it or agreed on anything, just like they never talked about the fact that Louis wakes up in Harry’s bed for three days straight… Or the fact that he goes to sleep there for three days straight either. 

It’s the twenty-first now - well, as of three hours ago at least. They spent most of the night watching Hugh Grant movies - as one does - making their way through _Two Week’s Notice, Notting Hill,_ and _Four Weddings and a Funeral._ Louis is close to dozing off, warm from the blanket wrapped around him and Harry’s side pressed into him. 

Sitting so close to each other is _practical,_ of course. It’s officially winter now, and as someone who gets cold easily, Louis will take heat from as many sources as possible, including his perhaps-soulmate. And it’s not like Harry seems to mind, the heavy weight of his arm resting around Louis’ shoulders from when he placed it there a little ways into the first movie proving otherwise. 

Louis is close to forsaking all thoughts of embarrassment and taking the plunge to lay his head on Harry’s shoulder - it’s just _right there,_ practically waiting for Louis to take advantage of. But then Harry shifts, moving to get up and Louis pouts internally. 

Harry gets up and Louis can’t stop himself from blurting, “Where’re you going?”

“I didn’t realize I left this out here,” Harry says, grabbing something off of the ground. 

Louis has to squint to see it in the dark, but his eyes slowly adjust to see a smooth black case with an undeniable shape. “Is that your violin?” he asks carefully. Some of his eagerness may have slipped through because Harry chuckles, nodding. 

“Want to see it?” he asks, shooting Louis a smile. 

“Do I want to meet your child?” Louis asks, arching a brow. “Yes, yes, I really do.” 

He nearly yelps when Harry flicks the light on, the abrupt blare feeling harsh and much too bright against his eyes. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, ambling back towards him with a guilty look on his face. He returns to his seat right beside Louis, sides pressed together, sharing the same space. Louis wills his heart to cooperate, fingers curling into his joggers. “Okay, so this is Eileen,” Harry says proudly. 

“Eileen?” Louis says, before it hits him. “From _Come on Eileen?”_

“The very one,” Harry nods. “It’s the song I first tried to play when I was about ten, working with a crappy half size I got from my cousin who took a couple lessons and gave it up. It was too hard for me at the time but for some reason I just _really_ wanted to get it.”

“Did you get it?” Louis asks. 

Harry shoots him an offended look. “Of course I did!” He sets the case on his lap and grabs the zipper, the sound reverberating in Louis’ ears as he drags it open. For some reason, it feels as if Harry is sharing something profound with him, heartbeat going a bit unsteady and space between them going staticky. 

The interior of the case is blue velvet and Louis has the urge to run his fingers across the softness, but keeps his hands pressed to his thighs. He looks at the instrument laid in its cradle, inches of bronze varnished wood that gleams in the dim light. Harry takes it out carefully, picking up the bow too before setting the case on the coffee table. 

“Hold this,” Harry says, handing the instrument to Louis who takes it from him carefully. 

It feels a bit like Harry is showing that he _trusts_ Louis, letting him touch his violin and study it’s every line and groove. Whatever it means, Louis holds it as if he were holding a priceless artifact, feeling the weight and the texture against his fingers that’s new to him but which Harry has become accustomed to for much longer. It’s part of him. 

His attention snaps back to Harry as he reaches back into the case for a small rectangular box. Louis watches as he slides a wooden object from the paper wrapper that contains what looks like amber in it. 

“This is rosin,” Harry explains. “It’s made from tree sap. We use it to create friction between the strings and the bow. Without it, the sound is barely audible.”

Louis watches as Harry takes the bow in one hand and holds the rosin in the other, and then proceeds to pull the bow across the amber surface as if it were a violin, slowly transferring the sticky shine to the hair of the bow. When Harry finishes, Louis attempts to hand the violin to him only for Harry to shake his head.

“I’m not the one playing,” he says, smirking.

When his meaning sets in, Louis tries to protest but Harry won’t hear it. “It’s going to sound like a screeching cat,” Louis insists. 

“Good thing no one’s up but us to hear it,” Harry shrugs. 

“They’ll be woken up by my awful playing,” Louis mutters. “You’ll get sound complaints and eventually be kicked out of the building. You’ll have to play violin on the streets instead of from your balcony.”

“Such a drama queen,” Harry tsks. “C’mon, Lou. At least let me show you how to hold it properly.”

All it takes is one second of seeing Harry’s earnest expression and Louis relents, sighing. He waits for instructions, nearly jumping when instead Harry places his hands over his. 

Harry’s touch is fleeting but deliberate as he guides Louis into the correct position, tucking the ebony chin rest right under his chin and curling Louis’ hand around the neck of the instrument. “There you go,” he murmurs, voice tickling Louis’ ear. 

His fingers press into Louis’ elbow which he has awkwardly jutted out, pushing it more under the body of the violin. Louis can feel a strain form in his arm muscles but he maintains the position diligently. 

“This is the trickier part,” Harry says, holding up the bow and grabbing Louis’ right hand. He points to the small black section of the bow that protrudes from the actual wooden length. “This is called the ‘frog,’ and no, I actually still don’t have any clue why. But the way you hold the bow is by putting your thumb,” he pauses to press Louis’ thumb against the wood right beside the frog, “here. Then you curl your fingers over…” His touch is gentle as he moves Louis’ hand into place - the position is foreign and a bit uncomfortable, his joints twinging at the feeling already. 

The entire bow wobbles along with his hand when Harry lets go and he shoots him an anxious look. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry assures him. “It’s unnatural for most people at first and it takes a while for your hand to adapt since you’re using muscles that you rarely ever use.” 

He points to the wooden arched piece on the violin. “That’s the bridge. You only want to use the bow over the strings above it but before the neck. There are four strings: E, A, D, and G,” he says, pointing at each in turn. “Let’s try playing open A since it’s the easiest to get to.” 

Louis tenses when Harry grips his right elbow but lets him demonstrate the basic movement of dragging the bow across the strings, voice dipping to a murmur as he tells Louis the importance of long pulls of his arm and turning his wrist, whispering about how he needs to keep his elbow as still as possible. 

“Try it,” he urges after a beat. 

The first sound that Louis evokes from the instrument can’t be described as anything but a pitiful scratch. The bow barely grazes the strings, shaking so much that Louis almost feels embarrassed, but Harry just tells him to keep going, almost wrapped around him both hands hovering by each of his elbows. 

“Again,” Harry says. “Press down harder.” 

He obliges, flinching at the high-pitched noise he creates that can only be described as a screech. “Sorry,” he says, feeling guilty that Eileen is suffering.

“Shush, no, you’re doing good,” Harry says firmly. “Try to keep your movements as smooth as possible. Pretend the bow is attached to your arm - like it’s an extension of it and not a separate entity. Pull at the wrist and keep it steady and controlled. It’s not going to sound good the first few times, but you’re doing well.”

Nodding, Louis tries again. He grits his teeth and drags his bow across the A string. He nearly gasps when a rich sound emanates from his efforts - it’s still a bit scratchy and his bow slides off the string just after, but it’s distinct and loud. “Did I do it?” he asks, a bit breathless. 

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, and Louis feels breathless for an entirely different reason. Harry’s lips are brushing the side of his ear, hands pressing into his arms. “You did it.” 

Feeling flustered, Louis thrusts the violin into Harry’s hands. “Can we go out onto your balcony?” 

Harry doesn’t seem to notice the urgency in his tone, taking the instrument and setting it back in the case oh so carefully. “It’s late,” he says. “You should go to sleep.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Just for a few minutes,” he insists. “I want to see the place you saw me first,” he adds after a moment, voice softer. 

The look Harry sends him then is indecipherable, but then he nods. 

Even though he knew their balconies most likely looked identical, it still takes him off guard. He hears the sound of Harry sliding the door shut as he moves closer to the railing, looking out to the same view of London that he has from his own perch. Out in the dark, the moon shines brightly. It’s comforting, in Louis’ eyes, knowing that he and Harry are looking out at the same sky from their windows. That they exist in the same world - at moments like these, it almost feels like a world different from everyone else. 

_Soulmates,_ his brain conjures. He swallows, and then shivers. It’s a lot colder outside than he anticipated. He jumps when Harry crowds up behind up, hands landing on his shoulders and bleeding warmth through his jumper, blooming across his cheeks. 

“One thing I love about London is that you can see the evidence of history all around you,” Harry murmurs. “Old blending into new instead of being forgotten.”

“Hm?” Louis says, dazed at the feeling of Harry’s hands on him, his voice in his ear, breath tickling his nape. 

“It’s a city of contrast,” Harry says quietly. “You can go on a walk downtown and see skyscrapers and modern architecture one minute and then old townhouses dating back to the Victorian era the next. It shouldn’t work - modern and historical just coexisting like that, but it does. And it’s sort of beautiful to me. The fact that you can see our past and where we’ve come from while moving to our future. Remembering and learning, never replacing. You look at those old buildings and wonder why they lasted so long, how they’re still here standing. They survived wars and fires and years of merging and breaking apart at the seams. In a way, it’s like they represent human existence.” 

“That’s…” Louis has no words to describe what it is. Harry seems to get it, squeezing his shoulders. 

He focuses on the pressure of Harry’s touch, staring out into the night and the little points of light in the distance. London is sleeping around them, but not everyone in London is sleeping with it. All around the city, there’s people existing. Living, breathing, coping, _surviving._ Harry and him are two of them. 

“You should go to sleep,” Harry says after a minute, breaking him out of his trance. “Much more important than listening to me ramble.” 

“No, I…” Louis shakes his head, turning around in Harry’s hold. His next words slip out unintended, honest and vulnerable. “I like hearing you ramble. I like staying up with you.” 

It’s inky dark but Harry’s eyes gleam brightly even through the black, fixed completely on Louis. He shivers again, feeling naked under the scrutiny. It’s a bit maddening how Harry has the ability to pin you in place, making him feel like he’s the only one on the planet. 

“Can you see me?” he finds himself whispering, heart beat going a bit unsteady. 

Harry’s fingers press into his hips, anchoring him to the floor. “Yeah, I see you,” he whispers, voice deep and slow. Sure.

Louis exhales. His heart beats once, twice, thrice - deafening in the chilly air. 

And then Harry kisses him. 

The weight of his lips against Louis’ takes a second to process, and Louis gasps into it, hands lifting up to grasp at Harry’s shirt, heart skipping a beat, knees going weak. Harry’s hands keep him balanced, mouth hot and heavy against his. 

It’s cold outside but Harry is warm, one arm curling around his waist and the other lifting, hand cupping the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair and gently tilting his head up, coaxing a whimper from the back of his throat. Louis grips helplessly at Harry’s shoulders, trying to hold on as his body goes lax, a frisson of heat forming in his stomach and spreading across his body. 

When Harry starts moving them backwards, Louis follows in a daze, falling into Harry and trusting him to catch him. And Harry goes, holding him close and carefully. His thumb is pressed into Louis’ jaw, rubbing back and forth so tenderly that it makes Louis feel even more faint, nails digging into Harry’s neck as he sags into his chest, letting out a sound when Harry sucks on his tongue. 

They’re inside, all of a sudden. Louis didn’t even notice - barely even notices when Harry crowds him against the glass door, hand sliding under his sweater, palm splaying out against his back, skin burning beneath his fingers as if his touch can leave an imprint on his body, phantom heat sliding up his spine. 

Louis’ eyes are squeezed impossibly shut, but suddenly all he can see is gold. 

It registers as softly as a breeze - tender like a caress, steady as a heart beat. Not quite a realization, veering closer to remembering. Like a forgotten memory being returned. Like coming home. It curls around Louis’ heart, swelling with every breath, thrumming under his skin, pushing at his lips. In that moment, he can feel it in every vein in his body, every artery and organ, every hair on his head. In every single cell that makes up the entity of Louis Tomlinson, he knows. 

He draws back with a sigh, swaying on his feet. Harry’s hand slides to cradle the side of his face and he leans into it, eyes still closed, a smile tugging at his lips as warmth pools in his heart. Beautiful blushing bliss. 

“Harry,” he murmurs, and Harry presses his lips to the corner of his mouth, so achingly tender. Louis’ heart flutters with certainty. At this moment, Louis has no doubts, nothing but steadfast burning conviction, smoldering at the hollow of his heart and sparking across his body. “Harry… you’re my soulmate,” he whispers. It feels right, crystallizing in the air between them, becoming tangible - just as real as the heart beating in his chest, the air flowing into his lungs. _Right._

It takes him completely by surprise. What happens next takes him completely by surprise, so unexpected he never even considered it. He didn’t see it coming - the way Harry jerks back at his declaration as if he’s been physically shocked. The way he stumbles back, hands leaving Louis’ skin and taking the heat with him. He doesn’t see it coming, left reeling, mouth dropped open and heart stuck in his throat. 

“What?” The word is ripped from his mouth, dripping with confusion and a dash of fear.

“Don’t,” Harry says, voice hoarse, eyes wild. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Louis says, blinking rapidly, hands still lifted like he’s still trying to reach out - to hold on.

“How could you say that?” Harry asks, sounding hurt, sounding angry. “How could you say that when you _know_ it isn’t true.”

“No,” Louis says, shaking his head. “It makes sense. And it feels right, doesn’t it? You feel it too?”

“Louis, you can’t be serious,” Harry croaks. “Surely, you know how it works by now. It’s all about dreams. I haven’t dreamed in six years.” 

“It’s not _just_ about dreams,” Louis says, taking a step closer. The look on Harry’s face makes his heart twist, nothing but disbelief and despair colored in his features. “I don’t need a dream to know. I thought I did, but I don’t. It’s bigger than that.”

Harry is shaking his head, hands shaking as he moves back. “Stop it,” he says. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel it at all,” Louis says, clinging desperately to the remaining threads of confidence that haven’t unraveled or been snipped by the sharpness of Harry’s voice, the clear cut rejection. “I haven’t dreamed either, Harry. Not in a long time.”

“You will,” Harry says. “You will someday. They all do. Everyone except me.”

“Listen to me,” Louis pleads, lump in his throat. This isn’t how he saw this going - how he saw being reunited with his soulmate going. Not even close. “Our sleep cycles are synced up.”

“If that were true, you’d have insomnia too.” Harry’s words are harsh, devoid of emotion. His lips are stretched into a thin line and it’s hard to imagine that just minutes ago they were slotted against Louis’.

“You know it doesn’t work like that,” Louis says, voice wavering. The sync isn’t exact, and won’t ever be. Sleep depends on too many factors - comfort, stress, diet, and more. It can’t be exact, but the closer you are to your soulmate, the stronger the link. The more dreams you get. 

“There’s only one thing I know,” Harry says, voice scarily calm. “I don’t have a soulmate.”

Louis flinches. It’s not from the words themselves, but from the conviction behind them, the complete and utter belief of its truth. “That’s not true,” he says, ears buzzing. “Everyone does.”

“I don’t,” Harry says. He looks away sharply, the bob of his adam’s apple distinct as he swallows. “Goodbye, Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes, fumbling for a way to make Harry understand, to change his mind. The warmth that enveloped his whole body just minutes ago has completely vanished, leaving behind nothing but icy claws digging into his skin, making him shudder. “Harry -“

“This was a mistake,” Harry says firmly, and then he walks away.

He actually walks away, disappearing out of the room in the direction of his room. The room with the bed Louis has been going to sleep and waking up in for three days. 

Every pulse of his heart feels like excruciating, an ache fostering between his ribs and spreading like a wildfire, infesting his lungs and clogging his throat. Suddenly, he feels unbelievably nauseous. 

Next thing Louis knows, he’s crumpling, crashing down to his feet, a sob wracking his body. He muffles it into his knees, tears dripping from his eyes and staining his trackies, burning against his skin. 

Harry is his soulmate. He knows it like he knows breathing. Harry is his soulmate.

He repeats it to himself over and over, arms curled tightly around his middle as he stumbles back down to his flat, trying to stamp out the sounds of his tears and failing. They tear through his lips no matter how hard he tries. 

Echoing in his head when Perrie bursts from her room, hair a mess and eyes widened in alarm. He was too loud.

 _Soulmate, soulmate, soulmate._ Over and over in his head until the word loses meaning. Until it’s nothing but a broken plea thrown up to the sky, shaking and trembling and blubbering while Perrie tries to figure out what’s wrong, rubbing circles into his back and letting him soak her shoulder with tears. 

While cracks manifest in Louis’ heart, the world keeps spinning onwards outside. Despite his pain, night falls away and the sun rises, bringing light to London as the city awakens. Despite him, a new day is born. 

| ☀ |

As frozen in place as he feels, December drifts on persistently. 

Louis spends the twenty-first baking cookies with Perrie and Leigh-Anne who comes over unannounced though Louis suspects they’ve been talking behind his back. Not maliciously, of course, but the concerned looks they send each other while he focuses on frosting are nothing but obvious. 

He spends his last shift at the bookshop till after Christmas restocking books and talking to Luci. After their conversation about soulmates, they’ve both come to an understanding with each other. The more Louis talks to Luci - the more he gets to know her, the _real_ her, the more he regrets not reaching out to her sooner. But he doesn’t dwell on it too much, soaking in her laughter and jokes and company and feeling lighter than he’s had for ages. 

Amira joins their conversation at one point too, and then MJ who isn’t working this shift but who popped in to buy a last minute gift for his friend. Louis realizes he really likes all of his coworkers, even the ones he rarely interacts with beyond work-related discussion. He may not know all of them really well, and they may not know him very well either, but they have this shared haven at Little Corner Bookshop. They look out for one another, picking up each other’s shifts when they can’t make it, asking each other about their days and genuinely wanting to know. There’s respect and familiarity in the way they regard each other. Louis realizes that at the end of it all, they’re _friends._

It’s what he gets to thinking about by the time he comes home - friendship. All his life, he’s considered himself a family person. He loves his family dearly and they’ve always been his number one priority, holding the biggest space in his heart. Soulmates are just another facet of family - more like the _potential_ of it. A missing piece that you can feel and anticipate. 

But friends have always been different to him. Not quite as clear cut. Leigh-Anne is still over, painting Perrie’s nails as they watch some random reality TV show playing on cable, voices loud but not as loud as their giggles. He joins them in the living room, snagging a crisp from the bowl Perrie has in her lap. They talk and they laugh and watch shitty television and Louis feels light. It’s something about the way neither of them have ever pressed when he’s upset, waiting for him to open up and share if he truly wants to. It’s something in the way he knows they’re there for him anyway - always. It’s something in the way that Perrie orders his favorite takeout for dinner just to bring a smile to his face. 

Friends, he realizes, are a lot closer to family than he first thought. 

And when he finally stumbles back to his room, feeling a bit fuzzy and giggly from the wine, he feels light, light, light. He washes his face and moisturizes and brushes his teeth and changes into his softest pajamas while humming to himself. Then he slides into his bed and it hits him. 

This is the first time he’s slept here in five days, pillows and sheets the wrong color, blankets feeling _too_ soft. He blinks up at the glow in the dark stickers he has plastered to the ceiling that all of a sudden feel too bright. 

After an hour of restless shifting and painful remembering, Louis finally falls asleep with rocks in his throat. 

| ☀ |

His eyes flutter open, meeting inky darkness. He sniffles, fingers curling into the blankets and tugging them closer. He turns to face the nightstand, meeting the blaring red numbers. 

It’s three in the morning. 

He’s up and out of the bed before he can stop himself, being pulled forward by an invisible string, chasing a phantom warmth in his chest. 

The air is freezing cold when he pries his sliding door open, shivering because he didn’t even grab a sweater this time. He was in too much of a hurry, looking for gold. 

Five minutes pass but nothing changes. No matter how hard he strains his ears or wills the universe to relent. When he stumbles back inside, it’s with wet cheeks and a hollow heart, the absence of music throbbing like an actual wound between his ribs. 

Or maybe, he thinks, the hurt is from the missing part of his soul. 

| ☀ |

Louis couldn’t help himself. 

Leigh-Anne was the one who mentioned it first. She was the one who mentioned the Winter Showcase for the school orchestra. Her dear friend Abby was playing in it. Louis doesn’t know her well but they’ve had a few classes together. She’s a lovely person and a talented musician, Leigh-Anne said. She wanted to go support her at the showcase. It was on the twenty-third, the day before his birthday when he’d leave to go home till the twenty-seventh. 

He had bit his lip, resisting the urge to give in and do what he knew he shouldn’t. In the end, he couldn’t withstand the longing - the _need._ So he requested to come along, ignoring the look Perrie sent him - sad, tinted with just the slightest bit of pity. He just can’t help himself. 

Now, here he is, tapping his thighs with quivering fingers in a dim performance hall, anxiously looking out and around them. They’re towards the back and the middle, with a good view of the vast stage in front of them. Leigh-Anne on one side and Perrie on the other - she tagged along too, and Louis takes comfort in the pressure of her hand squeezing his right as the curtains draw apart and the musicians enter the stage, decked in crisp suits and blouses, pure concentration on their faces. 

He sees Abby find her place on the right of the podium with the other cello players, looking beautiful with the pearl beads she implemented into her box braids for the occasion. She sends them a small smile before focusing on her instrument. Louis’ eyes trail over the ensembles before settling inevitably on the first violin section over to the left, fingers pressing into jumper sleeves. 

It doesn’t take him long to spot Harry. 

His eyes trail over his suited form, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders and his legs. He looks so handsome, eyes bright and hair slicked back, unzipping his case and pulling out Eileen, plucking her strings and turning the pegs to get her ready. The look on his face is composed and concentrated. It’s been four days since he’s seen him, four days without dimples and green eyes, and four nights without music. Louis feels breathless just looking at him.

The conductor walks up to the podium and everyone in the audience falls silent, waiting. Louis is frozen in place when he lifts his baton. The musicians tense, hands poised in position. He brings the wand down in a fell swoop and the music begins. 

Louis finds himself slumping back against his seat, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as the music seeps into his mind and whisks him off into another world, dozens of musicians playing in perfect harmony, every instrument in precise synchronization that can only be created from hours of relentless practice and steady discipline. It’s something truly incredible to witness. 

He doesn’t know much about classical music compositions and symphonies and other musical terms, but he soaks in every note and melody, letting every crisp nuance and soft detail sink into him and soothe his soul. 

But despite his best efforts, as time goes on, Louis’ self-control lessens and lessens. By the time they reach the fourth piece, his eyes have wandered back to the first violin section, to those broad shoulders and steady hands. He’s had those hands pressed into his waist, to his back, and the back of his neck. 

Watching him feels like falling under a spell, caught in a trance that he’s not sure he ever wants to be broken out of. The rest of the hall vanishes, other musicians blurring into the background. There might as well be a spotlight shining over Harry’s figure for how little Louis pays attention to anyone else. 

It’s strange, he thinks. It’s strange to have this much of a fascination with someone’s hands. Yet he can’t take his eyes off Harry’s long nimble fingers as they dance over the neck of the instrument, the steady pull of his right arm as he drags the bow across the strings and a long rich tone is drawn out from the hollow body. 

Louis can’t stop looking, can’t stop drinking in every twitch of Harry’s hands and the way a look of pure bliss falls over his face as he follows the conductor and builds to a crescendo, movements becoming quick and forceful before dipping back to a slower cadence. His bow slides down effortlessly - like an extension of his hand, he had said. But Louis thinks it’s a bit bigger than that. It’s like the violin is part of Harry’s _soul._

Maybe, Louis thinks almost deliriously, Harry’s soulmate has always been the music. 

Months ago, or even maybe a few days ago, Louis would have found it silly to be jealous of a physical object. But now, staring at Harry and seeing the pure dedication and devotion he has to his violin - to the music, to his performance - he thinks he understands. 

The final piece is something loud and intense, all sharp quickened movements and almost harsh tones, rendering every viewer into a silent stupor as the hall vibrates with the strength of it. Every note reverberates like a roar, drowning out the pounding of his heart. All at once, the conductor raises his baton and cracks it down like a whip in one final flourish, left hand drawing out to the side as the music fades in sync. 

He discards the wand and lifts both hands, turning to the audience which bursts into deafening applause, people springing to their feet in a standing ovation as all sections rise to their feet, lowering their instruments and emerging from their performance daze. 

Louis doesn’t remember standing up himself, but he claps and claps until his palms are stinging, somehow on cue with the erratic beats of his heart, so strong he feels as if the artery will just split right out of his chest. It submerges him - the applause, the whistles, the endless thrumming of sound filling his ears. He starts swaying on his feet. 

A hand grips his shoulder, squeezing. “Are you okay?” Perrie asks, sounding concerned. 

He doesn’t answer, unsure. He wonders how spooked he looks right now and decides he doesn’t want to know. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Perrie says, shooting a look to Leigh-Anne who nods. But there’s too many people all around them, confining them to their seats. Louis barely notices, eyes fixed only in one spot - on one person. 

It’s just for a moment. 

Harry’s scanning the crowd, smile wide and swollen with pride. His eyes trail over the faces of his admirers, soaking in their awe and silent praise. They fall on Louis who stands frozen, heart pounding in his chest. 

Two beats pass. Harry looks away. 

Louis is left standing, one stationary soul in a sea of moving people. 

| ☀ |

The next three days pass by in warm family embraces and the safety of his childhood room. He gets birthday wishes from family members and friends and spends time with his sisters, letting the youngest girls douse him in glitter that sticks to his skin and hair. He finds it ironic when he swipes some off his cheek to see the color and realizes it’s gold. 

Christmas is just as comforting and lovely, all thoughts of London and school and soulmates brushed to the side in favor of holiday cheer and happiness. He lets himself be lazy, collecting cuddles from as many family members and childhood friends as he can and letting the affection heal the cracks. It works, more or less. 

On the evening of the twenty-sixth, his phone buzzes with a message. He checks it, expecting to see belated Christmas or birthday wishes. It ends up being both, but the contact name has his heart dropping to his stomach. 

It’s Harry. 

**happy late birthday and christmas xx**

He stares at it for much too long, words blurring together and eyes burning from the brightness. Five words and two x’s and suddenly he feels like he’s back on the balcony, freezing cold and so alone. 

His phone gets shoved into a drawer for the remainder of the night, but he might as well have never bothered because the message is seared into his brain, prickling at his conscience and scratching at his lungs until the day falls away. 

The next day, he sends back a simple **_thank you, happy late christmas to you too x_ **

Telling himself that only replying with one x is a victory doesn’t really work, but it’s the principle of the thing. He takes the train back to London, nose stuck in a book and a scarf wound around his neck, bundled up in a new coat and the taste of tea still on his tongue. 

It feels a bit bittersweet returning to the flat while Perrie is still away. She’s returning later that night but the distance between then and now seems endless while he stands in the living room, actually alone for the first time in months. 

It takes him twenty minutes of attempting to unpack his things to realize he has too much energy sparking in his veins and needs to get it out somehow. He plants his hands on his hips and surveys his room thoughtfully. His eyes snag on a familiar leather sketchbook tucked into his shelf between a book and a planner from two years ago. He stares at it for a minute, before exhaling. 

Minutes later, he’s sitting at his desk with a blank spread in front of him, fingers twitching and mind racing. In this instance, he decides there is little in the world more daunting than empty space, waiting to be filled up. But he also decides something else: he doesn’t really care. With a deep breath, he puts his pencil to paper. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes as he draws and erases and grimaces and considers, rediscovering parts of himself he had forgotten since the last time he took the time to draw. He finishes one page, and then another, and another, dark lines replacing white expanses and creating something out of nothing. It’s nothing extraordinary but it feels like an accomplishment all the same. 

A tentative knock against the wall snaps him out of his haze, head whipping around to see Perrie leaning up against the door frame, tired eyes and a proud smile on her face. 

“Hi,” she says. 

“Hey,” he breathes, licking his lips. 

She nods to the sketchbook. “Whatcha got there?” 

He glances at the page, eyes tracing over faint curves and darker shapes. “A start,” he says eventually. “A beginning.” 

The look she gives him is a gentle sort of understanding. “A beginning,” she repeats, nodding. “Like a new day.” 

Louis' eyes stray to a small rushed doodle at the top left corner of his page. It’s more abstract than any of his other sketches, all faint lines and captured motion. If one looked closely, they might find a set of eyes amid the chaos. He swallows. “A new day.” 

| ☀ |

Every year, they host a small New Year’s party. 

It’s a tradition, Perrie insists. Louis mostly goes along with it to humor her, helping her string up lights and buy drinks and snacks and invite friends and potential friends. When she asks him if there’s anyone he wants to be there, he doesn’t hesitate to say he’ll be sending a message to a few people, thinking of Luci and Amira and Anya and MJ. 

He still hasn’t quite processed that it’s the end of the year, twelve months flown by much too quickly for him to recover, and another twelve looming far too close ahead. It’s a bit unnerving, more so than it’s been in any years past. Louis isn’t completely sure why, but he tries not to think too hard about it. 

Instead, he helps Perrie plan and set up everything, taking precautions in the form of setting coasters out everywhere, hiding some of their more valuable bits and bobs in their rooms, and laying all the food out on the kitchen table along with biodegradable cups and plates. 

Everything’s ready by the time it’s five o’clock, two hours before the time they both spread around to invitees. They both hop up onto the island, legs swinging as they talk aimlessly about random things. Perrie asks him if he has any resolutions and he remembers that she’s always been a big fan of annual reflection and goal-setting like that. 

“To draw more,” he tells her after mulling it over for a minute, and she nods, looking pleased. 

She starts going over hers - an extensive list of close to a dozen that Louis listens to diligently, and it’s then that it hits him why this year ending tonight seems almost upsetting. It’s then that it hits him that it’s not really about the year at all. 

Because it may be the end of the year today, but it’s also the end of the _month._ And somehow that is what’s been affecting him the most. It’s the end of a beautiful, glorious month filled with warmth and conversations under the moon and violin music and puzzles and being seen - being _known_ . Even with all the heartache and misery at its close, this month has shifted the world’s axis beneath his feet. Even after all of it, knowing Harry - knowing his _soulmate -_ will always be considered a beautiful thing in his mind. So when Perrie asks him, “Tell me something good that’s happened this year,” there’s only one thing he thinks of. 

“I fell in love this December.” 

Perrie is silent for a minute. Then, “Did you invite him?” she asks softly. 

Louis swallows. Nods. He did, just after lunch. He typed out the message with shaky fingers and had to squeeze his eyes shut when he hit send, unable to see his own words staring back at him. His phone is probably still back in his room in his nightstand drawer, hidden away. He couldn’t bear to look at it and see if there was a reply or worse, a read tag below his text that would feel like another rejection that he couldn’t handle. 

“Do you think he’ll come?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. He’s completely clueless. He doesn’t know if Harry intends to continue their friendship after an appropriate period of recovery for the awkwardness and tension or if he wants to distance himself from Louis all together. If they’ll end up skirting around each other with averted eyes months from now in the unfortunate chance that they cross paths in the building or on campus or somewhere else. 

They’re soulmates after all, they can’t stay away from each other forever. It almost makes him laugh out loud. Harry doesn’t think he has a soulmate - it’s so fucking ridiculous. 

“He won’t even consider it. He won’t listen,” he blurts out, unable to keep it in. Perrie doesn’t seem bothered, nodding for him to continue, to let out what he’s been holding in for over a week now. “What if he never believes me unless we both get the dream? What if that’s the only way this story has a happy ending?” 

Perrie bites her lip, scooting to angle her body towards him. “Sometimes insomnia goes away just with time,” she says gently. “Or, who knows, maybe it’ll just improve enough for him to dream again.” 

“How long will that take?” he asks helplessly, voice wavering. “What if I have to wait forever?” He shuts his eyes, tamping down the pressure in his throat. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to wait that long. I want to fall in love.” 

“I know, Lou, I know,” Perrie whispers, and when she opens her arms for a hug, Louis slumps into it gratefully. “You are loved,” she says after a minute, voice soft but firm. “Even without Harry, you are so incredibly loved.”

Louis presses his face into her shoulder, and believes her. 

They sit there in silence like this for a while. _Friendship_ , Louis thinks. _Family._ Sometimes they really are synonymous. 

| ☀ |

The first people at the door are Leigh-Anne, Jade, and Jesy. They hug him and go to find Perrie who’s checking all the rooms for any last-minute things to do or risks to avoid. 

MJ arrives next with his boyfriend, Erhan, and Louis chats with them for a couple minutes until someone else knocks at the door.

People trickle in steadily for the next half an hour. Quinn who works with Perrie and her boyfriend, Max. Anya, who brings vodka and a wide smile. Robbie, Amira, Abby (Louis praises her performance, feeling guilty that he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have), Tim, and Lira.

It’s five minutes to eight when he opens the door to find Luci standing outside, looking lovely in a black dress with gold stars stitched into the gauzy fabric. “I know I’m late but perfection takes time,” she says, gesturing to her outfit and then to her braided crown updo. She grins then. “Hi, Lou.”

He grins back, relieved she came. “You do look stunning,” he agrees. 

She scoffs and tugs him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. Then she pulls back and eyes him appreciatively. “And you look drop-dead gorgeous,” she says, whistling. 

“I’m blushing,” he jokes, letting her enter before shutting the door behind her. He did dress up particularly nice today, trying to tell himself it wasn’t for anyone’s benefit but his own. He’s wearing black jeans and a slightly cropped cobalt blue shirt that Perrie says brings out his eyes, hair artfully mussed into a soft fringe. It’s been getting longer but Louis doesn’t really want to cut it, liking the way it falls over the back of his neck.

“Introduce me to your friends,” Luci says, linking her arm in his. 

“Remember that you asked for it,” Louis says, giggling. He takes her to find Perrie and the girls and feels pleased when they immediately hit it off, lovely people getting along with lovely people. 

Louis and Luci end up parting off to talk to Amira and Anya in the kitchen for a bit, snacking on hors d'oeuvres and grapes that Perrie said were eaten for good luck in Spain. He abstains from drinking, not really in the mood for it tonight. They end up drifting back to the living room, mingling and circling from group to group.

He nearly misses the next knock because he’s laughing too hard at the story Luci is telling him, something about Valeria and her ex-boyfriend and a tennis racket. But he’s spent the past few hours waiting for a certain knock so he finds himself frozen in place, remembering that the pizza arrived thirty minutes ago so it has to be a guest. 

Leigh-Anne is closest to the door so she gets it this time. Louis finds himself holding his breath for no reason at all, hands curling into his sleeves. It opens to reveal someone that is most definitely not Harry. The newcomer is wearing striped high-waisted trousers and a black velvet turtleneck, wavy red hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. She steps in, shaking Leigh-Anne’s hand and giving her an unsure smile. 

Beside him, Luci stiffens. “What the fuck,” she says, and he realizes exactly who it is. “Louis, oh my God. I have to hide.” 

“Why?” he asks, playing dumb. He thinks back to the email he sent earlier this morning, and the hours he spent before said email tracking down this particular person based on the limited context clues Luci has provided in her many rambles and tangents. 

Luci looks frazzled, hands rising to fuss with her hair and pull at the fabric of her dress. “Oh my God, how did this happen? What the fuck, what the fuck.” 

Louis figures now is the time to come clean. “I invited her,” he admits, giving her a sheepish smile. 

“You _what?”_ Luci shrieks, shock overtaking her features. “Louis, oh my God. How did you even - you had no right to do this. She’s going to be _so_ mad when she sees me.” 

“Hold on, Luce. I invited her,” Louis says, unbothered by her freaking out, “and I _told_ her you’d be here.”

That makes Luci freeze in place, mouth dropping open. “W - what?”

“She knows you’re here,” Louis says calmly. “She came anyway.” 

“But -” Luci stops short, shock painted across her face. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I guess you’ll have to ask her.”

Luci stiffens, face blanching in panic. “Ask her? Oh no - no way. No way, Louis, _no way_. I can’t talk to her!”

“Why not? She came all this way for you,” Louis says, stepping in front of Luci when she tries to rush past him. He grips her shoulders and meets her eyes. “Luci, this is your chance.”

“I can’t do this,” she says, eyes wide and nervous. “Oh my god, Louis, she hates me. And for a good reason. I can’t go and talk to her.”

“So you want to do nothing?” Louis asks. “Just let her slip past your fingers without even _trying?_ That doesn’t sound like Lucia Maria Gonzales to me.” 

“This is _different,”_ she hisses, arms curling around her middle. “This is my soulmate.”

“Which is exactly why you have to fight for her,” Louis says bluntly. He softens, watching Luci’s eyes anxiously dart from him to Elena Fieraru. “Anything,” he reminds her. “You said you’d do _anything_ to experience it.” 

Luci stares at him, wordless. 

He arches a brow. “All you have to do is go talk to her. She _came,_ Luci. That’s more than I can say for my soulmate.” He didn’t intend to let the bitterness out, but he supposes the point still stands. 

She blinks - once, twice, three times. She glances at Elena again and then back at Louis who remains still. She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and then goes. 

Louis watches her walk up to where Elena and Leigh-Anne are still chatting, both of them stopping abruptly when Luci makes her presence known. He’s too far away to see the exact expression on Elena’s face but he’d bet a million bucks that it isn’t hatred in her eyes as she not-so-subtly appraises Luci. 

He waits to see Luci say something to Elena and Elena to nod back, following her across the room to the hallway where they might find some privacy. He stops paying attention after that, knowing that what happens next is only between Luci and her soulmate. 

The party continues nicely. He eats pizza and talks to Robbie and Amira and Perrie who’s a little (lot) wine drunk. They get the music started in the living room and like a magnetic pull, he’s tugged to the center of the room, unable to resist the music. 

Night wears on in hazy bliss. He’s pretty sure he dances with everyone at some point, twirling under so many arms he loses count. He didn’t drink anything but he still feels tipsy, drunk off the adrenaline and giddiness of people pressed close and joy in the air. At one point, he thinks he catches a glimpse of Luci and Elena dancing - _together._ It just makes him feel even more giddy. He’s not sure how many songs go by, caught in a daze he’s not sure he wants to escape. It’s a welcome distraction, is what he figures. All the people around him are a welcome distraction from the one person who didn’t show up. 

It’s past eleven when he stumbles away from it, needing some fresh air. There’s only one place he can get that. 

His room is silent compared to the excitement outside. He can still hear muffled music and chatter through the door but he finds it almost comforting. He’s by himself over here, but not alone. 

Stepping out on the balcony feels a mixture of bittersweet and painful, but he pushes through it, inhaling gulps of cold and moist London air as he leans up against the railing. 

He just stands there in silence for a few minutes, breathing in and out, and - much to Perrie’s pleasure had she known - reflecting over the year. It’s been a strange one, filled with dreamless nights, stressful classes, and bitter loneliness, but it’s also been impossibly good. Kind friends, cuddles, and warmth. In the end, he thinks, it’s been rather worth it. 

For a wild second, he thinks he can hear the faint notes of a violin in the breeze but it's nothing but smoke and mirrors, a cruel illusion crafted by his traitorous mind. However, the telltale sound of the door sliding open isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

“I’m fine, Per. I’ll come back out in a minute,” he says, figuring she noticed his absence and came to check on him. He frowns when he receives no answer. Mouth opening to ask what’s wrong, he turns and immediately stops short. 

It’s not Perrie. 

Louis is frozen in place, shock overtaking his insides as Harry takes a careful step forward, so many emotions layering over his face that Louis feels dizzy looking at him.

Or maybe that daze is a product of the fact that Harry’s wearing sleek black jeans and a silk white shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel, swallow tattoos on display and a glimpse of the moth on his abdomen. His hair is brushed back, eyeliner framing his eyes and making them look impossibly green. He looks stunning, and Louis is wary. 

His wariness grows when Harry brings one of his hands out from behind his back to reveal a single crimson rose clutched in his ringed fingers. 

For a moment, they just stare at each other. Louis can feel the weight of Harry’s gaze travel over his body, drinking him in, but they’re both staring. At Harry and at the flower in his hand. A _friend_ does not simply bring a _friend_ a red rose as an apology. 

“You know, if this was a proper movie-level romantic gesture,” he says flatly, “you would have come down from the balcony and scared the shit out of me again.”

Harry gives him a half-smile, unbothered by his disinterested tone. “Didn’t feel like messing up all this hard work,” he says, gesturing to his outfit and his hair. “But it can be arranged for next time if you put in a formal request.”

Louis loses patience with Harry’s - and his own - dodging much too fast. “What’re you doing here?” he blurts, gripping the railing with pale fingers. 

“I was invited,” Harry murmurs. “By someone I can’t say no to.”

Suddenly, Louis feels like laughing - loud obnoxious cackling that’d fill the air and be heard all across the city. “I think we’ve established that you can, actually,” is what he chooses to say, tone as smooth as his composure - which is to say, close to cracking in half. 

“No,” Harry says, and then shakes his head. “I don’t think we have.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. “What do you want, Harry?”

“I want to tell you a story,” Harry says softly. He pauses, sounding sheepish when he adds, “And to tell you that you look really pretty tonight.”

His eyes open, color flooding his cheeks no matter how much he tries to will it away. “What story?” he asks, trying to draw attention away from how easily Harry can fluster him. 

“Hopefully, one that will make things a bit clearer,” Harry sighs. “Can we go inside? I can see you shivering and it’s distracting me because I want to lend you a jacket but I don’t even have one with me.”

Louis blinks. Nods. He breezes past Harry and back into his room, sitting down on his bed. Sensing Louis’ precarious mood, Harry chooses to sit at his desk, sliding down in his spinning chair and eyeing Louis like he’s something unpredictable and volatile. 

“What is it?” he asks, resisting the urge to bring his legs onto the mattress and hug his knees to his chest. 

Harry takes a deep breath, looking hesitant but determined. “First of all, I’m sorry for how I acted last time we saw each other… and for what I said about what we did being a mistake. It was a lie that I said to hurt you… it was wrong of me and I’m sorry.” From anyone else, it’d sound like an overly rehearsed monologue that Louis would find insincere, but it’s not anyone else. It’s _Harry_ and he’s never anything but genuine, all the time. There’s nothing but conviction in his words, genuine regret and remorse heavy in his tone. 

“What does that mean?” Louis asks, before he can blurt out something ridiculous like _I forgive you - love me please?_

“Story first,” Harry says, sighing. “So you know that I was diagnosed with chronic insomnia when I was fifteen already. It was completely out of nowhere but back then everyone - my doctor, my parents, even me - was still optimistic. I had no idea why this was happening to me but I tried not to think about it. We tried different things, and none of it worked. I missed sleeping, I missed waking up in the morning to a new day, I missed feeling refreshed, and I missed _dreaming._ I never used to pay much attention to the ones I got until they were taken from me. But I was still optimistic, maybe a bit desperate. I started drinking a lot of coffee and taking advantage of all the free time I suddenly gained. I _coped.”_

Biting his tongue, Louis tries to picture a younger version of Harry - scrawnier and still growing into his limbs… more bright-eyed, less weary. He clasps his hands, squeezing. 

“But it didn’t go away,” Harry says after a beat, a tinge of bitterness in his voice. “It didn’t go away, and suddenly my eighteenth birthday was approaching and I was scared. How was I supposed to find my soulmate when I couldn’t dream?” He closes his eyes. “I feel like you think that I just don’t care, Louis. About soulmates. But the truth is, I had been waiting to meet mine from the very first day I learned what they were.”

It all sounds achingly familiar. 

“I turned eighteen,” Harry says, sounding almost monotonous. “Days passed, then weeks, months… Then I turned nineteen. The whole year went by and I didn’t dream. I started to wonder if I’d ever get one again. I started to wonder if the reason I couldn’t dream was because I didn’t have a soulmate at all.”

Louis flinches. He can’t help himself - the pain in Harry’s voice too apparent, too real. 

“Time kept passing,” Harry says softly. “I turned twenty. No dreams. No sleeping. No nothing. I started coming to terms with the idea of not having a soulmate, or _tried_ to anyway. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I could find someone for myself anyway. But it’s difficult. It’s difficult to date and look for something serious when most relationships not with your soulmate are considered nothing but casual - just for fun before the real deal came along. After a series of disappointments and broken hearts, I was trying to come to terms with the idea of being _alone_ for the rest of my life.” He opens his eyes and finally looks at Louis, gaze unsure. “Then I met you.”

The way he says it - a bit sheepish, a bit fond, a whole lot awed - makes butterflies erupt in Louis’ stomach. His fingers are curled into the bed, head ducking low, unable to meet Harry’s eyes or show his own lest Harry see right through them. 

“It sounds a bit crazy looking back on it now, but I never saw any of this coming,” Harry says after a small pause. “I didn’t expect to be so drawn to you, to feel so connected to you. But the more time we spent together, the harder it got to deny. I told myself not to feel hopeful because you hadn’t met your soulmate and didn’t seem concerned about it. You never talked about them, I mean. _Everyone_ talks about their soulmates. Even the ones who like to keep it private can’t help but blurt it out to someone when they’ve met the one.”

Louis nods, grimacing. He’s right. He’s thought about it before - how people feel the need to announce to the world that they found their person for acknowledgement, maybe, but mostly just out of excitement. People like to share when they’re happy. They can’t keep all that giddiness and joy to themselves. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to either, but he tries not to make a habit of wishful thinking.

“At first, I didn’t want to get my hopes up. I tried to keep you at arm’s length,” Harry says, before smiling at him softly. “You snuck through the cracks anyway. And then I kissed you.” It comes out almost longing. “I kissed you and then you said you thought I was your soulmate.” 

“Harry -” Louis tries, wanting to attempt to explain _why_ again, but Harry shakes his head 

“No, just -” He exhales, looking conflicted. “Just - listen for a minute. Try to imagine what it was like... I spent so long resigning myself to being soulmateless, so long trying to convince myself that I didn’t _need_ one. And then I started to fall for you and I started to have hope again. That maybe I could have something - _someone._ That someone could want me even without a dream to guide them _._ But then you said you thought I was your soulmate and suddenly it all crumbled. You wanted me because you wanted me to be your soulmate, and I couldn’t give you what you want.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes, pained. He stands up and watches Harry mirror his movements, looking hesitant and wary as to what Louis is going to do. With a frustrated huff, Louis collides into him, pulling him into a cuddle. 

Harry seems startled, but he immediately hugs Louis back, smelling like pine and vanilla and _warmth._ He seems to relax when Louis tucks his face into his neck, nuzzling up into his neck a bit. 

However, Louis still pulls back after a moment, getting serious. “Do you really believe that you're the only one that doesn’t have a soulmate? 

“I dunno,” Harry confesses, slower than usual, hands never leaving his hips. “There was something my grandma always used to say to me when growing up,” he murmurs after a beat, once again getting distracted. “‘Things are the way they are because that’s the way it’s meant to be.’ And look, I know that’s such a narrow-minded and harmful perspective, but… I’d be lying if I said I never felt like I was somehow not meant to have a soulmate because I didn’t _deserve_ one.”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, and then squeezes Harry tighter, trying to squish the pain and overthinking out. “You deserve one,” he says firmly. “You deserve love and happiness.”

“Lou,” Harry murmurs, and Louis tilts his head up to look at him, feeling fingers trace over the side of his face almost reverently. “I don’t know if I have a soulmate or if I ever will,” he says slowly. “But I do know that I really, really like you. And I want to try it - _us -_ if you’ll let me.”

Instead of replying, Louis surges up on his toes to kiss Harry on the lips. It takes him by surprise, that much Louis can tell, but only mere seconds pass before he’s snaking an arm around Louis’ waist and cradling the back of his head with his hand. 

It feels like the earth tilts back onto its axis, everything falling where it’s supposed to be, everything _right._ It’s like Harry is stealing the air straight from his lungs, so much at once. Louis has to pull back after a minute, pressing his forehead to Harry’s shoulder and trying to catch his breath. 

“You were wrong,” he whispers after a moment, lifting his head to look Harry in the eye. “About two things. The first was about me needing a dream to tell me what I want. I don’t need anything or anyone to know what I feel.” He still believes Harry is his soulmate, _knows_ it deep in his heart, but he thinks he can accept Harry not being completely on the same page. He can accept it because they _are_ on the same page where it counts, where it matters. He licks his lips, and continues, “The second was that you can’t give me what I want. You can. Because what I want is you, Harry. Soulmate or not, I want you. I _choose_ you.” 

Harry just stares at him for a minute, frozen in place, a bit in awe. “Are you real?” he asks softly. 

Lacing his arms around Harry’s neck and leaning up on his tiptoes, Louis mumbles his next words into his lips, “I’m real. And _this_ is real.” 

By the time the muffled sound of people counting down from ten seeps in through the closed door, clock inching towards a new year, Louis is straddled in Harry’s lap, hands tangled in his hair, soft whimpers falling from his mouth when Harry bites down on his bottom lip. 

Louis enters the new year with Harry’s tongue in his mouth, the faint cheers and muted party blowers buzzing in the background, warmth blooming in his chest, spreading to his fingers and toes. It’s difficult but he manages to pull back from Harry’s lips, incredibly dazed, to say, “Happy New Year, Harry.” 

“Happy New Year, Lou,” Harry says, eyes hazy and voice soft, hair all mussed up. He grabs one of Louis’ hands and kisses the back of it before tugging him back in, finding his lips again. All things considered, it’s a pretty damn good beginning. 

| ☀ |

They try to be discreet coming out of Louis’ room, but Harry is nothing but obvious about the way he curls an arm around Louis’ shoulders, sides pressed together, nothing but warmth between them.

Louis is jittery, bouncing on his toes and shoving his hands into his pockets so he won’t fidget. Echoes of Harry’s whispered _my flat is completely empty right now_ ringing in his ears, anticipating curling in his stomach. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this impatient and desperate - and from nothing but a promise of what’s to come. 

“I have to say bye to Perrie,” he murmurs, though it almost comes out like a question. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, lips twitching when he glances at him, focusing on Louis’ eyes first before dropping to his mouth unashamedly. Louis licks his bottom lip on instinct, and Harry blinks rapidly, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he repeats, but more to himself this time. 

The party is slowing down a bit, well past midnight and into the early morning. Only a few people are still hanging around, chatting in small huddles on the outskirts of the room. Harry makes a sound behind him, seemingly remembering something. 

“Wait, before we go,” he says, steering him towards the living room. “There’s someone I’d really like you to meet…” There’s an unfamiliar man with dark hair tied back standing with a hand placed on the wall, talking animatedly to Lira who looks half-amused and half-entranced. He glances over immediately when Harry clears his throat, a smile spreading across his lips. It’s then that Louis realizes he _does_ recognize him - from some of the photos hanging on Harry’s bedroom walls. 

“Harry,” he crows, gesturing to Lira with a grin. “Meet Lira!”

“Hi, Lira,” Harry says, amused. He tugs Louis into his side. “Lou, this is Mitch, my roommate and dear friend. He’s normally not this loud, must be the vodka.” His lips twitch. “And this is Lira, apparently. Nice to meet you.”

Mitch looks surprised and then excited, sticking a hand out to Louis who shakes it. “The one Harry can’t shut up about,” he says, sounding pleased. “Pleasure to meet you, Louis. I have plenty of embarrassing stories to tell you whenever you’re free.”

Louis giggles and Harry swats Mitch’s arm jokingly. 

“So, are you free to chat, or,” Mitch waggles his eyebrows. “Finally putting that bed to use?”

“Bye, Mitch,” Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off. Go have some fun, you bastard,” Mitch says. He turns to Louis. “Take care of him, alright? Don’t tell him I said this but he’s my best friend and he deserves the best.” 

“Aw, Mitchie,” Harry says, hand pressed to his chest. “You do care!” 

Mitch flips him off with a laugh. 

“I will,” Louis says, smiling. He can tell already from this short conversation that Harry and Mitch are good friends, the familiarity and ease at which they joke around mixed with the tenderness of the hug Harry tugs Mitch into, patting his back. They’re family, Louis can tell. And that makes him happy. 

“It was good to meet you, Louis,” Mitch says, pulling him into a brief hug too. “I look forward to getting to know you better. Me and Harry have a mean guitar and violin act if you’re ever interested.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Louis says, unsurprised that Mitch too is a musician. Who better to tolerate Harry’s music-charged way of life than someone with the same passion. “Nice to meet you, Mitch.” 

They say goodbye, and Louis reaches for Harry’s hand, squeezing. “Mitch is great,” he says gently. 

Harry looks pleased, squeezing back. “He is, isn’t he.” 

“I think Lira thinks so too,” Louis murmurs conspiratorially. 

“Yeah, she did,” Harry nods. “Alas, Mitch is head-over-heels for his soulmate: _Sarah._ They haven’t met yet and he only knows her name and voice but he’s hopeful.” 

“I see,” Louis says, smiling. He spots Perrie then, arranging a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that Louis hasn’t seen. Pale yellow daffodils and pink peonies - new beginnings, good luck, and prosperity. A fitting New Year’s bouquet. 

“Those are from me,” Harry whispers, nudging his side. “And Mitch,” he amends after a moment. “I originally just wanted to get a rose for you but I figured getting something nice to bribe my way in to see you wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Charmer,” Louis murmurs, nudging him back. “They’re pretty,” he adds, much quieter. Harry hears him, fingers pressing tighter. “Now, c’mon.” He tugs Harry along, eager for the chance to introduce Harry under the new development of their relationship. 

The grin on Perrie’s face when she sees their linked hands can’t be described by anything other than smug. “By all means, please ditch,” she says when Louis tells her they’re leaving. “And don’t come back till morning.” 

“Great to see you’ll miss me,” Louis says dryly, and she rolls her eyes, tugging him into a quick but tight hug, the smell of her floral perfume filling his nose. 

“Always,” she says, and Louis smiles. She pulls back, eyes widening. “Shit, almost forgot to say. Luci left ten minutes ago and told me to tell you goodbye!” She winks at Louis, having known of his little scheme well in advance. “She didn’t leave alone.” 

Louis makes a mental note to call Luci tomorrow, ready for the details, but settles for grinning. “Good to know.” 

Finally they’re headed for the door. Harry opens it for Louis, keeping their fingers intertwined, and they step into the silent hallway. They both look at each other, and then take off. It’s not quite running but not quite walking - sides brushing on every step, soft stolen glances, and giddy smiles. Soon, Harry’s door stands before them, looking more appealing than it ever has. Harry unlocks the door, and once again gestures for Louis to enter first. 

The lights flick on, and Louis takes in the living room, eyes drifting over the coffee table that they picked out together and the couch where they watched movies and almost-cuddled again and again. He exhales, then promptly _shrieks_ when arms snake around his hips and he’s lifted in the air. “Harry,” he gasps, hands grasping at the fabric of Harry’s shirt when he’s thrown over his shoulder.

“Too slow,” Harry says, like it’s an explanation, before moving through the room. Louis decides to just go with it, but he still smacks Harry’s lower back which only makes the bastard laugh. 

Harry doesn’t set him down until they reach his bedroom, laying him on the mattress carefully and slowly. Louis appreciates the care, but he’s losing patience rapidly, skin suddenly burning hot, heart racing. It’s late, but he’s never felt more awake. 

The first press of Harry’s lips to his is warm, a bit rushed - angle not quite right and pace hurried, restless and desperate. Louis sighs into it, grabbing at the thin fabric of Harry’s shirt and feeling the heat from his abdomen against his fingers. It only takes a few seconds to undo the remaining buttons on his shirt, flattening his hands against Harry’s stomach and feeling the muscles go taut against his skin. 

“Louis, Louis, Louis,” Harry mumbles into his lips, cupping the back of his neck and tilting his head until the kiss deepens. He slows it down a bit, fingers skimming over the sliver of skin at Louis’ navel, making him shiver. “Can I?” he asks. 

“Please,” Louis breathes, a tremor wracking his body when Harry rucks the fabric of his shirt up to his chest, exposing his skin to the cool air of the room and the heat of Harry’s gaze when he pulls back to get it all the way over Louis’ head. He nods jerkily when Harry curls a finger around the waistband of his jeans in question, tensing when Harry undoes the button and begins tugging them down. 

Harry leans down and drags his lips down the skin of his thighs, leaving imprints in his wake, little reminders that his mouth was there. He discards both clothing pieces off the side of the bed unceremoniously, eyes never leaving Louis’ body. 

A sudden rush of awareness befalls Louis. Not quite self-consciousness or insecurity, but something akin to it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s seen him naked, and it’s the first time it’s ever meant this much. Louis finds himself curling his arms over his stomach automatically, hiding. And he sucks in a breath when Harry grabs his arms, gently moving them to his sides. 

“Let me see you,” he says, voice steady. “You’re exquisite.” 

The word washes over him, bathed in sincerity and awe. He shudders, tension draining from his body to be replaced by assurance; it is warm again. 

Harry sits back on his heels and just _looks_ for a moment. Louis can feel the heat flood his cheeks, flushing down his throat to his chest, overwhelmed under such intense scrutiny - heavy and reverent. He can feel the weight of it travel over his face, dancing over the slope of his nose and the arches of his cheeks, down the curve of his throat, ghosting over the dip of his collarbone, gliding down his chest to his stomach, rising and falling with every breath. 

It’s so much, almost _too_ much, and Louis feels a mixture of needy and content as he lays there, letting Harry stare and memorize every plane of his body. He can feel his arousal coiled tightly in the base of his stomach, thrumming in his veins and pressing at the fabric of his cotton briefs.

He nearly jolts when Harry curls a hand around his thigh, a warm grounding weight that feels like the only thing keeping him from floating away. It feels as if they’re on some other separate hollow of the universe, just him and Harry existing, a million threads tying them together. _Soulmates,_ Louis thinks dazedly. _Like soulmates._

“Baby,” Harry says, voice hoarse, and Louis whimpers, eyes fluttering shut. “Do you want me to get you off?” 

His brain goes a bit fuzzy, but he manages a nod. However, that’s not what Harry wants. 

“Words,” he says, cradling the side of Louis' face, thumb pressing into the corner of his bitten mouth. “Tell me what you want.” 

“You,” Louis chokes out, feeling Harry’s grip tighten on his thigh. “Want you… in me. Please.” 

“We can do that,” Harry murmurs, eyeing him like he’s a treasure meant to be cherished. He looks curious for a moment, like he’s thought of something but isn’t sure about it. But he seems to decide, “Are you going to be a good boy for me?” 

Louis whimpers, feeling a frisson of heat spark inside him. He shifts on the mattress, searching for some friction, something, anything -

Harry lets go of his thigh in favor of pressing the heel of his hand into the small bulge of his underwear. He cries out, hips bucking up into it. 

“Please, please,” he says, far past being embarrassed. Harry’s still looking at him almost inquisitively, like Louis is a puzzle he’s close to figuring out and he wouldn’t mind spending hours doing so. But Louis can’t wait hours. “Harry, _please.”_

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Harry murmurs, moving up to press his lips to Louis’ hunched shoulder, burning cheek, and sweat-slick temple. “Is this okay, baby?” 

“Yes,” Louis blurts, remembering Harry’s request to use his words. “Yes, yes, please.” 

“So polite,” Harry remarks, before yanking his briefs down in a swift movement. Louis jerks, cock springing out, flushed red and leaking at the tip. Harry hums appreciatively, wasting no time in curling his fingers around it. Louis has to squeeze his eyes shut after just a glimpse of how Harry’s hand almost envelops his entire length, his own hands clawing at the sheets on his sides, hanging on for dear life. “Open your eyes,” he says then. 

Louis obeys automatically, meeting Harry’s darkened eyes. Harry thumbs over his slit almost casually, gaze never faltering from Louis’ face even when he shakes almost violently. It’s like he’s trying to catalogue every reaction - every shift, twitch, or sound - and memorize it, storing it away someplace for keeping; for remembering next time. 

The thought has him even more restless, thrusting up into the circle of Harry’s fingers only for Harry to let go completely. His lips part and a whine is drawn from the back of his throat. 

“Lube,” Harry breathes, like he needs to remind himself too. He stumbles off from the bed, opening the top drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a bottle and a condom. Louis exhales only when his knee is back on the mattress, reaching out to tug Harry closer and pouting when he takes his sweet time. 

Harry kisses him in apology, sucking on his tongue almost lazily, keeping the pace slow and steady when Louis tries in vain to speed it up, so hard he feels dizzy with it. Dizzy with want, with Harry clouding all of his senses. 

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t even realize Harry’s uncapped the lube and slicked his fingers up until he feels the first cold touch between his legs, trailing up to his rim and circling it slowly. He gasps into Harry’s mouth, tears brimming in his eyes when Harry bites down and inches his finger in simultaneously. 

It’s not like Louis hasn’t fingered himself recently, but with Harry it’s different, _better._ His fingers are different - longer, thicker, pressing in deep even though he’s just gotten started. His legs quiver, spreading unconsciously as Harry switches to sucking a path down his throat, leaving a trail of pink marks in his wake. 

A second finger eases in with the first, working him open with ease. It’s like Harry’s been doing this for ages, knowing exactly what to do to make Louis tremor. It’s almost like, Louis thinks dazedly, Harry is playing him like a violin. 

Movements assured and agonizingly precise, knowing exactly how and where to press or prod in order to draw all kinds of noises from Louis’ lips, a symphony of the best kind - the human kind. 

Louis winds his arms around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him closer till the space between them feels infinitesimal, the universe existing only in the points of contact between them. His cock is trapped between them, sliding between their abdomens thanks to the buildup of precum. He already feels so close. Yet he still finds himself saying, _pleading,_ “More. More, Harry.” 

“Don’t worry, little one,” Harry murmurs, before reaching between them and gripping his prick with a firm hand. It’s right as his fingers brush the exact right spot and Louis chokes. “You can give me two.” 

He comes with a shout, shaking and quivering. Harry works him through it, holding his fingers to his prostate until he’s squirming, unsure whether to push into the pressure or get away from it. Harry’s still holding his cock, stroking him carefully until he’s twitching from the oversensitivity, letting out a pitiful whine. 

Harry cups the back of his head, pressing Louis’ forehead to his chest as he heaves for breath. “So perfect,” he praises. “So perfect for me, sweetheart. Doing so well.” He still has his fingers in Louis but he keeps them still for now, whispering sweet nothings into his ear and telling him to take it easy for a minute. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Louis listens to the rush of blood in his ears, taking deep breaths and listening to the steady pulse of Harry’s heart beating in his chest. He lets it soothe him, grounded by the hand on the back of his head and the lips pressed to his hair. 

“Alright?” he asks when Louis pulls back a moment later, breathing evened out once again. 

“Yeah,” Louis rasps, blinking away tears in his eyes. He doesn’t think he’s felt this much at once ever, so overwhelmed and dazed he can hardly think. There is only one thing on his mind. “In.”

“I will, baby,” Harry promises, before pushing his fingers deeper and spreading them, making room. He eases a third finger in and Louis sucks in a breath, digging his nails into Harry’s shoulders. 

It feels like an eternity passes before Harry finally slides his fingers out, leaving him miserably empty as Harry finally shoves his pants down. 

Louis has been so preoccupied that he didn’t have time to appreciate the very obvious and very prominent bulge of Harry’s cock pressing up against the fabric of his boxers, but he rectifies it now, throat going a bit dry when Harry pulls those down too and his dick pops out in all its glory. He takes in its length, the girth, and then trails his eyes over Harry from head to toe, feeling breathless.

When he speaks, his words come out calm and completely serious. “Get in me right now.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, but he returns onto the bed and hovers over Louis right where he belongs. He fumbles for the condom, ripping the wrapper and sliding it on without pausing. Meanwhile, Louis is squirming against the mattress, desperation smouldering in his veins and deep in his bones. 

His thigh burns when Harry hitches it up to his side, running a hand down the length of his leg softly before moving closer, lining up.

“Wait,” Louis blurts, and Harry startles, alarm plastered on his face. Louis shakes his head, reaching for Harry’s hand. 

The way Harry’s face softens immediately is a sight to behold, intertwining their fingers and bringing their linked hands to his lips so he can kiss Louis’ knuckles. The tender action makes Louis’ heart flutter, turning his head to hide his smile.

That smile is immediately cut off when Harry pushes in, mouth shaping into an ‘o’ as each inch slides into him. Harry feels impossibly big, filling Louis up so well he can feel it in every part of him, fingers clutching Harry’s hand and back and toes curling into the sheets. 

“Taking me so well,” Harry murmurs, bringing their linked hands above Louis’ head. Louis shudders when he bottoms out, hips nestled against Louis’ arse. He feels so full he can barely breathe. “Doing so well for me, baby.”

“Harry,” Louis breathes, because he doesn’t know what else to say - because he can’t think about anything except his name. _Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry._ His eyes squeeze shut and he whimpers, the burn spreading across his body, lighting him aflame. 

“Look at me,” Harry says, steady. 

Eyes opening, Louis struggles to hold Harry’s heavy gaze, feeling pinned in place. He exhales when Harry leans down close enough for their lips to brush, noses bumping, sharing the same breath. 

“You make me feel awake,” Harry murmurs, and Louis’ heart sings. “All I want to do is make you feel half of what you’ve made me feel.” 

Louis opens his mouth to protest, to tell Harry that he’s not sure if it’s possible to feel more than what he’s feeling now, every cell in his body vibrating, pulse pounding in his ears. He feels _gold._ But before he can speak, Harry moves. 

It’s so much. Harry only slides out before pushing back in, but it’s so much. Stars dance in front of Louis’ eyes, the entire galaxy laid out in the hollow of Harry’s throat and the bow of his collarbone. His head lolls back onto the sheets as he lets out another whimper. 

Harry squeezes his hand, the slow drag of his hips controlled and deliberate, cock pressing thick and deep. His hand smooths Louis’ fringe over his forehead, tenderness in sharp contrast to the force of his thrusts. “Feel good?” he grunts. 

All Louis can muster is a mewl, throwing his free arm around Harry’s neck and mouthing at his shoulder messily. When Harry angles just right, Louis cries out, teeth digging into Harry’s skin as he quakes. 

But something happens when Louis bites down - as in it elicits a specific reaction from Harry that has Louis short-circuiting.

He bites down on Harry’s shoulder and then Harry curls his fingers in Louis’ hair and _pulls._ Louis gasps at the sting, rocking up into Harry’s cock with a whine. Harry noses up his throat, breath fanning out over his neck. “Do you like that, little one?” he whispers directly into his ear. “When it hurts a little?” 

Louis feels lightheaded and dizzy, burning from inside to out, unable to form coherent words. He settles for jerking his head, realizing belatedly that Harry still has a hold on it. His eyes water and he squeezes them shut. 

Harry renews his efforts, drawing back and then slamming back in with fervor. He keeps his fingers curled in Louis’ hair, tugging his head back on every other thrust, sending his eyes rolling back into his head. 

It’s not long until Louis can feel his second orgasm building, lungs contracting with every breath, vision blurry with tears. He can feel every point of contact between them burning, threads of fine gold winding around their clasped hands down to their feet. There is something profound tying them together, something ethereal and celestial, something from the stars. 

“Close,” he slurs, not even realizing that he’s began unconsciously meeting each of Harry’s thrusts, trying to get him deeper and deeper. There is something profound about letting someone into the most intimate parts of you. 

He isn’t talking about physically. 

“Do you remember,” Harry pants, “when I told you about how the sun brings back the light.” 

It strikes a chord inside Louis, tendrils of a hazy memory washing over him. He makes a sound in assent, jolting when Harry presses right up into his prostate, holding it. 

“I used to hate the night,” Harry grunts. “I hated being alone.” He lets go of Louis’ hand in favor of hitching his leg higher, fucking in deeper and deeper. “But then you came along and brought light to the dark.” 

A surge of pure warmth fills Louis’ chest, heart swelling with emotion. He cradles the side of Harry’s face, pulling him closer so their lips can meet and trying to convey nonverbally how much he’s feeling. 

“You,” Harry mumbles into his mouth. “You are my salvation, my solace.” 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a strangled gasp, a single tear wetting a path down his cheek, followed by more. _“Harry,”_ he pleads, because he can’t just blurt out _I’m in love with you._

“Come for me,” Harry whispers, voice so tender. “I’ll catch you.” 

So Louis lets go. His lips part on a silent scream, shaking under the weight of Harry’s body, falling apart. But Harry catches him, holds him close, holds him together as he chases his own release. He comes with a low groan, shoulders going rigid and muscles taut as he spills into the condom. 

Everything goes a bit hazy. Louis closes his eyes, feeling blissfully lax and boneless. There’s a faint ringing in his ears and he’s pretty sure that if he were to try, he wouldn’t be able to move his arms or legs yet, but he feels nice. Happy. 

After Harry ties off and discards the condom, he slumps next to Louis, looking at him with so much awe in his eyes that Louis finds himself blushing, struggling to hold eye contact. Maybe that’s also a product of the exhaustion, heavy on his eyelids, the remnants of his energy having been fucked straight out of him. Sleep is within grasp, dancing on his fingertips, but he doesn’t want this to end quite yet. 

Eventually, Harry drags himself off the bed to grab a rag. Louis mumbles his gratitude, still completely immobile. However, his eyes are in perfect working condition, allowing him to admire the planes of Harry’s body as he returns with a cloth in hand, hair a mess and eyes brighter than Louis has ever seen them. 

He wipes Louis down thoroughly and carefully before taking a seat on the edge of the bed and looking at him again. Louis is beginning to discover that Harry likes to just sit and admire sometimes - like he’s learned to appreciate things more so than the average person. 

That doesn’t mean Louis is any less impatient, lifting his hands and reaching them in Harry’s direction expectantly. “Kiss, please?” he breathes. 

Harry blinks dazedly, before scrambling fully onto the bed in a rush. “Whatever you want,” he says, before ducking down to slot their lips together. 

They make out for a while, slow and lazy slides of their tongues, fingers brushing through hair, hearts beating in sync. Louis is pretty sure there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. But Harry pulls back almost immediately when Louis yawns softly. 

“You should sleep,” he says, moving to lay down beside him. 

“Not tired,” Louis lies, but Harry gives him a look like _really?_ “Want to be with you,” he amends. 

“I’m right here,” Harry says, reaching out to brush his fringe to the side. “Not going anywhere, promise.”

“Still. I want to stay up with you,” he insists, right as he feels his eyelids getting heavier, vision blurring and senses slowing down. 

Harry looks fond as he presses his lips to Louis’ forehead. “Okay, stay up with me then,” he says, but he looks amused, like what Louis has said is particularly funny. 

Louis halfheartedly swats him on the chest in rebuke, but he can feel the corners of his mouth quirking up despite himself. He can’t help it. There’s lots to be happy about when Harry is looking at him like he’s a marvel. 

That’s how he eventually falls asleep, a smile on his face, and Harry’s hand holding his. 

| ☀ |

Louis wakes to the sound of a violin. It’s soft, so faint he can barely hear it, but it’s there. Eyes still closed, he assumes Harry’s out on the balcony playing music like he always does. He feels peaceful, relaxed and content. And well-rested enough that he decides he wants to join Harry, see him play to London and watch the sun rise together. 

His eyes open and he freezes. 

Because he’s not in bed - in fact, he’s not laying down at all. He’s standing straight, dressed in his silk pajamas that he definitely wasn’t wearing when he fell asleep. Most strange is _where_ he is, and that’s the balcony. His balcony, not Harry’s. He looks out to the sky and gasps. 

Ahead of him is a sky of gold. Pure aurelian for as far as he can see and no buildings, no trees, no _London_ to be seen. 

His breath catches, heart beating unsteadily as he flounders to process what he’s looking at, what’s going on. It’s almost as if he’s - 

It hits him what this is a second later, breath catching in his throat and heart stuttering. His eyes flutter shut when the music pauses, lips parting when he hears the telltale thump of something landing beside him. His fingers twitch against the railing but he doesn’t so much as flinch when the first breath fans out over the soft skin of the back of his neck. 

He’s frozen in place, bare toes curling into the metal. He doesn’t want to look. Doesn’t want to look in case this is somehow not real, that it’ll disappear in smoke and ashes and Louis will be mourning the loss of nothing but a cruel illusion. Doesn’t want to lose the mirage of gold at his fingertips. 

Lips press at the soft skin behind his ear and he exhales shakily, a tremor running through his body. His fear eases when the pressure returns again, lingering this time before dragging down across his nape. Hands engulf his own, trapping his fingers around the metal and proving once and for all that this, though a dream, is achingly _real._

Louis turns excruciatingly slow, reluctantly breaking their contact for a few terrible seconds before he’s curling his hands into the material of a familiar worn-out shirt, head dropping to a familiar shoulder as he inhales a familiar scent. 

A bloom of a smile unfurls across his lips which he presses into the fabric half-heartedly, almost dizzy with it. His entire body is thrumming with happiness, with _warmth._ This - this is what’s meant to be. Louis can feel it in every part of him. 

This is what he’s been waiting for his entire life.

He clings to Harry, marvelling at the fact that they can _feel_ each other, how detailed everything is. It’s because they’re right beside each other in the waking world, he realizes. They’re the closest they can be in person which means their dream has completely synced up. 

Even insomnia cannot prevail over sleeping next to your soulmate. 

When the lights begin to dim and the edges of the dream go soft, starting to fade out, Louis isn’t worried. When Harry’s touch turns phantom and his senses dull, everything going fuzzy, he isn’t worried. Because his mother had been wrong, he _does_ want to wake up from this dream.

Because this time, he knows there are far better things awaiting him when he wakes. 

| ☀ |

Morning arrives and Louis wakes up, remnants of his sleep - of his _dream_ \- wafting around him. He exhales, looking up from his spot laying on Harry’s chest to see that Harry’s already awake and looking at him, eyes brimming with tears. 

“You dreamed,” he blurts, voice crackly from sleep but no less full of wonder. “Harry, you _dreamed.”_

Harry shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. He wipes at his eyes helplessly. “I think I slept… five hours. God, that’s insane.” His lips curve into a glorious smile. “Lou, I dreamed.” 

Louis feels his heart swell as he winds his arms around Harry’s neck, his own lips turning into a beam. “You’re my soulmate,” he says, and it comes out more breathless than he’s anticipated. He’s waited his _entire life_ to say those words and have them be nothing but truth. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, closing his eyes. “Say it again, baby.” 

“You’re my soulmate,” Louis repeats, smiling so wide that the corners of his mouth hurt. “Harry Styles, you’re my soulmate.” 

Harry lets out a sound, curling an arm around his waist and rolling them over until Louis’ back is against the mattress. He realizes now that he’s wearing a shirt - one of Harry’s presumably, hem brushing his thighs. “God, is this happening?” Harry murmurs, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

“You mean: are you dreaming?” Louis teases, placing his hands on the sides of Harry’s face. His heart flutters when Harry blankets them with his own, heat bleeding from his skin to Louis’. “I told you,” he whispers after a beat. “Everyone has a soulmate.” 

“And you’re mine,” Harry breathes, before leaning down to kiss him. 

| ☀ |

Luci likes to talk. 

She likes it a lot, actually, but Louis finds that after all these months that he rather appreciates it too. It means that there’s never a moment of silence between them, conversation switching from topic to topic in rapid succession, never faltering once. He’s never bored for a second. 

Like right now, as they sit at Louis’ couch, each concentrated on their individual projects. Louis is knitting a scarf. It’s nearly April now and the time for extra layers is fading, but he figures he can finish it for Harry so that he has it by the time Winter drifts around again. The forest green yarn he’s using is nice, so thick and soft that he shamelessly rubs it up against his cheek every few minutes. Maybe that’s why he’s not made much progress, or maybe it has something to do with the talking.

Instead of knitting, Luci is _embroidering_. She’s been secretly working on a pair of Elena’s white vans for the past week, planning on giving it to her as part of her birthday gift in a few weeks. She’s been struggling with some of the smaller stitches for the petals on the many flowers sketched over the canvas, but she’s still somehow managing to multitask, telling Louis about how her younger brother just got his first soulmate dream. 

“It was extremely vague, but he’s ecstatic,” she explains. “It was like… flashes of a gold locket and the smell of roses, so cliche and unhelpful.”

Louis hums. “Was it a generic locket or something unique? Could he find a clue there?” 

Luci wrinkles her nose. “I dunno,” she shrugs. “Not that it’d help anyway. My brother’s knowledge of jewelry is microscopic.” 

“The next one will be clearer,” Louis says decidedly. “I have faith.”

“Says the one whose first and only soulmate dream happened when said soulmate was literally sleeping with him,” Luci says, arching a brow. “Tony’s soulmate is probably halfway across the world.” 

“He’ll find them eventually,” Louis shrugs. “We all do.”

Luci huffs, but doesn’t deny it. Her next exclamation is one of pain, pinching her pointer finger and thumb together as she hisses. “Stupid damn needles.”

“Why are we putting ourselves through this torture?” Louis asks, frowning when he realizes he missed a stitch two loops ago and has to redo them. 

“For soulmates,” Luci sighs and he smiles to himself. 

Even three months later, the knowledge that he’s currently and happily with his soulmate - his wonderful, perfect soulmate - still makes him giddy. 

“Oh, there it is,” Luci mutters. “You’re making your dopey Harry face.”

Louis changes his mind. Luci should shut up.

His phone buzzes and he grabs it, seeing a missed text from Perrie an hour ago about ordering takeout for dinner and a new one from Harry telling him he’s coming down. “Harry’s coming over,” he tells Luci, typing out a response to Perrie while clasping both knitting needles in one hand. 

“Of course he is,” Luci says, but she doesn’t sound too bothered. Not that she’d have a right to; Louis has lost count of how many times Luci has ditched him for Elena or invited her to hang out during shifts at Little Corner. 

He jumps to his feet when a familiar succession of knocks sound at the door: two short; one short, one long, two short; and one long, one short, two long. Otherwise known as ‘I - L - Y’ in morse code. Just like always. 

“Love you too,” Louis says when the door swings open, just like always. 

Harry holds his arms out and Louis sinks into his hold, a soft smile blossoming on his lips. 

“Missed you,” Harry murmurs, kissing the top of his head. 

“Don’t you guys - oh, I dunno - spend every morning together?” Luci calls out, nothing but teasing in her tone. 

“Hey, Luce,” Harry says to her, walking Louis backwards and detaching one of his arms to close the door and lock it behind him. Louis lets himself be moved, clinging to Harry like a koala. “How’s it going?”

“I’m dismal, Harry. Utterly dismal, thank you for asking,” she says, letting out a dramatic sigh. “The things I do for love.”

“What’s this?” Harry asks, spotting Louis’ abandoned somewhat-scarf. 

“Nothing,” Louis says, trying to distract. “Hey, look, your wonderful, amazing, perfect boyfriend is standing in front of you.

Harry grins, indulging him when he leans up for a kiss. But then he leans back and says, “Cute scarf, baby.”

Louis scowls at him, breaking away from his hold. “You could at least _pretend.”_

“My bad,” Harry says, looking amused. He presses his hand to his heart. “I didn’t see anything. Just my wonderful, amazing, perfect boyfriend.” 

“Better,” Louis nods, before letting himself smile again. He can’t help it. Three months and nothing has changed: there’s so much to smile about when Harry is looking at him like he’s a marvel. 

He’s dressed comfortably in gray trackies and a sweater that’s perfect for Louis to nuzzle into so he does. He looks happy but tired, and Louis manifests some better rest tonight. 

As much as Louis believes in the power of true love, Harry still has insomnia. It’s gotten better though, enough for him to get a few hours of sleep more than a couple times a week. Louis isn’t quite sure what it is, but Harry’s convinced that it’s the sex, rambling on about oxytocin and prolactin and cortisol. 

Louis doesn’t care about the technicalities of it, more than okay with letting Harry fuck his brains out before bed every night if it means Harry can get some much needed rest, because he’s actually laying down in a bed and _trying_ to sleep every night again. Louis has made sure of it - hence his new affinity for koala-holds. 

Even with the progress, Harry still pretty much never dreams, but he always tells Louis that he doesn’t care because he got the most important one of all already. Then Louis always tells him he’s a sap. 

Harry joins them on the couch, letting Louis put his feet in his lap and placing a heavy hand on his calf. He doesn’t speak much, choosing to let Luci ramble on about Elena and Valeria and Tony and a million other subjects while Louis interjects when needed, tongue in cheek as he tries to get some momentum with his stitches. 

There’s a quiet sort of comfort in the whole scene - in Luci’s chatter, the tender motions of Harry’s fingers against his leg, the repetitive movements of his hands as he finishes off another row. In being surrounded by family. It settles deep inside of him, content. 

“What did you guys do all day?” Harry asks. 

“Nothing much,” Louis says. “Finished a few assignments and then Luci came over after lunch.”

“He drew a lot,” Luci volunteers as soon as he stops speaking, because she’s a _traitor._

“You did?” Harry asks, sounding pleased and curious. 

Louis shrugs, shy. “Just a few sketches,” he admits, biting his lip. He still feels a bit protective of his sketchbook and the etchings hidden in it, his soul laid bare. He’s shown Harry certain pages, doodles he’s done of him - his eyes, the line of his jaw, his smile. One day he’ll show them all. 

“Can I see?” Harry asks then. Softer, more gentle. 

“Play me something tonight and I’ll show you,” Louis decides after a beat. “Something of yours.”

Harry nods. “Anything for my muse,” he says, kissing the back of his hand. Louis’ heart flutters. 

They both ignore Luci’s gagging. As if she and Elena aren’t just as or even worse.

Later on after Luci leaves with one shoe almost completed, Louis and Harry have dinner with Perrie and then retreat to Louis’ room to sleep - well, to fuck and make sleep. 

Even later, well into the night, Louis gets the opportunity to witness an incredibly rare phenomenon: Harry asleep while he isn’t. He looks so peaceful in his sleep, all exhaustion erased from his features. Louis isn’t trying to be creepy by looking but seeing Harry get some rest just makes him so happy. 

He’s been dreaming a lot more himself in recent times, no longer facing the effects of Harry’s sleep cycle blurring into his own. He’s been dreaming a lot more but there’s one dream he wants to come true more than any other one day, and that is that Harry gets to sleep through the entire night. 

He doesn’t know when it’ll happen, or even if it’ll happen. All he can do is hope. 

After all, dreams are a fickle thing. 

| ☀ |

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now that the story has been told. Sarah, I think we can both agree that it was fate that put as together. I'm so grateful I tweeted about nwng back in February 2020 and that you saw it even though you didn't have Twitter and we didn't know each other at the time and became my first follower on Tumblr even though we didn't know each other at the time. And I'm so glad you _did_ make a Twitter in April and dmed me on May 9th after I posted a fic because - and not to be dramatic, but - it changed both of our lives for the better :') 
> 
> I figured it was fitting to make the toast to our friendship a soulmate au since that's what brought us together in the first place. And in many ways, you really are my twin flame. You always put a smile on my face and whenever we talk, none of the stress or any external problems exist - it always feels like a relief. You see me and I see you <3 
> 
> Sometimes, friendship really is synonymous with family. So happy birthday saint Sarah, my soul sister and best friend. I lobe you to the stars and back! <3
> 
> \--  
> Title is from "Sleep on the Floor" by the Lumineers
> 
> Find me at:
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/falsegoodnight) | [tumblr](http://falsegoodnight.tumblr.com) | [fic post](https://falsegoodnight.tumblr.com/post/641234931983532032/if-the-sun-dont-shine-explicit-36k-louis)
> 
> Feel free to reach out or say hi! Or send me an ask on [cc](https://curiouscat.me/falsegoodnight) with your thoughts!


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